IF A HOUSE 
COULD TALK 




Class f 10^ 

Book , / ?^ 




IF A HOUSE COULD 
TALK 



'BEING A HISTORY 

OK A Flood of Released Recollections, the Resurrection of Old Letters and 
Photographs PERTAINING to Litchfield and the Vaill Homestead cover- 
ing A PAST DATING FROM I 867 TO I 8 76 IN WHICH I WAS VITALLY INTER- 
ested, an unbridged past dating from 1876 to i9i5, an in- 
terim of two years, when by some strange decree of 
fate it was ordained that i should spend the summer 
months close by the spot on which julia last 
tread the earth, and where her soul took 
flight, a fitting atmosphere in which 
to gather these stray leaves with- 
in the confines of these cov- 
ers to the memory of 
Julia and for "Auld 
Lang Synb" 



"By 

CORA SMITH GOULD 



1917: 

Privately printed by 

ROGERS & COMPANY, Inc. 

NEW YORK 



FTof 
.L7Q6 



Copyright, 191 7, by CORA S. GOULD 
/ 

OCT 18 i3i? 



)C!A']7('0I9 



"Wc \ 






TO 

the Little House on the Knoll 
on the Fringe of the Village of Litchfield, Conn. 

THE VAILL HOMESTEAD 

one hundred and seventy-three years old in 
this year nineteen hundred 
and seventeen 



To all the loyal hearts that have beat beneath its roof 

To all the descendants of the same wherever they may be 

This sketch is affe£lionately dedicated 




• ft • t i ^.l "< 



« > 



ss 



LITCHFIELD 



{The first place on this continent to bear the name, incorporated as 
a village, May, 1818) 

A FTER many years I re-visit the scenes of my 

^^-\ childhood. Shades of the Vaill, Smith, Lyman, 

Robinson and Ormiston families — where have 

they flown? Their descendants, representing a second 

and third generation, scattered over the broad earth. 

My mind is running riot with crowding memories, 
rushing memories — now tinged with sadness, now 
lifted up to strata of joyous thought. Sad, with the 
loss of our first loves, who have passed through the 
portals of their earthly home to the Great Beyond; 
glad, in the realization of many hopes fulfilled, and 
increase of family ties to ameliorate the pang of sep- 
arations. 

Could I but borrow my Father's poetical mantle, I 
would dress my thoughts in just such beautiful meta- 
phors as the following from his pen: 

"One little day of sunshine and of tears, 
One little day of mingled hopes and fears, 
One little day, and then the shining shore 
Beyond is reached, and we are known no more. 
Life's but a span at most, come weal, come woe — 
And still our joys and sorrows ebb and flow. 
Joy-bells ring, yet sorrows pierce the heart; 
Glad re-unions come, yet friends must part." 



Oh, for the pen of a Goldsmith, to make "A Deserted 
Village" glow with pristine sweetness and renewed 
interest! Or for that of a Tennyson, who plays on our 
heart-strings in "The Days That Are No More"! Or 
that of a Moore who has called forth a thousand rever- 
berating echoes with " 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer"! 
And what mortal could resist the tender appeal of John 
Howard Payne's "Home, Sweet Home"? Countless 
thousands of other gifted ones live within the charmed 
circle, looking through the Poet's prism at this sad, 
old world, which they idealize and beautify. 

Again, I wish for the Artist's power to transform 
bare canvas into an immortal creation with mere brush 
and pigment. The perspective of the picture reveals 
the real touch of genius, after all. Strong and impel- 
ling as may be the story told in the foreground, it 
lacks the mystic atmosphere and mellow tints of the 
background. 

So now do I pose in the foreground of this picture- 
in-prose of Litchfield, straining my eyes to catch the 
farthest ray of light to illumine my pathway back to 
the rocks and rills, the woods, the birds, the flowers — 
all more lovely than ever in perspective, this Twelfth 
day of August, Nineteen hundred and fifteen. 



LITCHFIELD, THE CRADLE OF THE 
VAILLS— AND JULIA 

BACK after many years with husband and son, in a 
wonderful machine, such as was never dreamed 
of in the days of yore, to the hallowed spot to 
prove that she had not been romancing or weaving a 
fairy story to amuse these two who have filled her life 
for almost twenty-five years, whilst the past receded to 
its own shadowy background. 

Could anything be more magical than coming such 
a distance over hill and dale in such a manner, flying 
up ascents that had seemed interminable then, when 
the horses climbed them laboriously from the railroad 
station eight miles away? No train had ever come 
closer to the town. 

I remembered my very first visit in care of a friend 
bound for that mystical spot called L i t c h fi e 1 d. 

My Father had placed me aboard the train; alighting 
some hours later we were met by a neighboring farmer, 
with his horse and wagon; such a hard seat, softened, 
however, by a blanket placed across it. Evidently we 
had not timed our coming for the stage. This good 
Samaritan of Miss Julia's was the typical sort with 
the wide-brimmed straw hat and the wisp of straw 
in his mouth, such type as had never before come under 
my actual observation. His questions were innumer- 
able with an evident craving for news from the city 

7 



folks. It was almost dusk when we arrived and it 
grew rapidly darker as we jogged along those ever- 
lasting miles. I was thankful that my smiles and sup- 
pressed laughter were hidden for the most part from 
his occasional scrutinizing glance. I was at the gig- 
gling age, uncontrollable to the verge of rudeness under 
great pressure. My laconic rejoinders to his ques- 
tioning brought forth from him the same response in a 
dialect new to my ears. "Dew tell, I wanter know." 
It became a by-word with us children for the season, 
even our elders smiled though they rebuked the levity, 
but that was long ago. My husband is talking now. 
He is saying that he is surprised that Torrington does 
not strike a responsive chord in my mind, but it means 
nothing to me, except that according to the sign-post 
it is eight miles to Litchfield from this apparently 
flourishing town — from which we fairly flew away 
toward the enchanted Litchfield of my dreams. 

My eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the dis- 
tant church steeple, my heart-beats quickened, we came 
nearer and nearer — we reached the goal — but "Phelp's 
Tavern"* and "The Berkshire Inn" meant naught to 
me. On close inspection both looked equally unfamil- 
iar to my anxious eyes. However, stop we must — and 
did — at the door of the one called "The Berkshire Inn." 
"A room and bath?" "No," from the clerk. "Yes," 
from one higher in authority. "It will take ten minutes 
to prepare the room." 

The proprietor could not see a motor party pass him 
by; so he gives up his room for the night. 



•An old and distinguished friend, disguised by an added story and a cliange of name. 

8 




e 



Vanish every remaining illusion nursed tenaciously 
to this crisis — on taking possession of an uninviting 
corner of the house! Why did I come! We sup in 
semi-darkness in an improvised out-of-door dining- 
room — a feeble attempt having been made at some- 
thing up to date w^ith shaded candles, w^hich in this 
instance served only to throw a deeper gloom over my 
spirits. The meal finished, I was eager to escape the 
strange atmsophere. "Come, George; let us hurry 
away — even in the dark and drizzle. I want to breathe 
the pure air, and find one familiar thing." I am sure 
even in the dark I can discern the old Church, or the 
white frame building on the farther corner called the 
"Mansion House," which catered to the comfort of 
the wayfarer in those good old days. Even a glimpse 
of the small candy-shop with the perennial chocolate 
cream drops, hard though toothsome, doled out to us 
in tiny white paper bags, upon which Ambrosia, our 
chaperone, looked askance — even a glimpse of this lure 
of the town would prove an oasis ; or the prosaic butch- 
er's, in which I had less interest, I would now greet 
cordially. It was down from the sidewalk three steps, 
and I could see Miss Julia behind the window making 
careful choice of the cuts, while I sat in the wagon and 
held the reins as a mere matter of form. But they all 
seem to have vanished — these landmarks! George tries 
to laugh away my disappointment, verging almost on 
terror, at the blank wall which seems to rise before me. 
"What is this new spot?" I gasped helplessly, as one 
laboring under some cruel spell. "I never saw this 
park, with its many cement walks," I wailed ; "nor the 
monument: it is all discouragingly new." 



We sat for a few moments on a bench under the 
fine stone shaft, on which were inscribed the names of 
the Litchfield heroes of the Civil War. I told George 
how in the old days we children from the Vaill home- 
stead used to travel, with old Billy or Kitty — the faith- 
ful horse and mare, to the town, a distance of several 
miles; how we would drive the spoiled pets through 
the streams, allowing them to loiter and cool them- 
selves; how I loved to hear the wheels crunch over 
the pebbles in the bottom of the brook, where oc- 
casionally would dart a venturesome perch or trout 
for which I was ever on the lookout. My listener is 
sympathetic, but pretends to skepticism, as there seemed 
as yet no proof of my statements. But my reminis- 
censing is cut short, for the rain drives us back to the 
shelter on the unromantic piazza of the Inn, which 
had taken shape in my long absence and gone into de- 
cline ere my return — not old enough to be interesting, 
and too old to be attractive to me in my present humor. 

Just to make it interesting, George starts his favorite 
topic — which is the last straw on my depressed spirits — 
data, both as to the flight of time and the ages of cer- 
tain dwellers on this sphere — more especially apper- 
taining to this special inhabitant, myself. His ambition 
tends to encourage one's climb up to high-water mark, 
and from that vantage point to take a certain amount 
of pride in recounting the steps which typify our birth- 
days, as if each one were an accomplishment of our 
own volition, and quite a laudable achievement. Each 
year must fit nicely and accurately in its proper place 
on the tablet. My ambition, on the other hand, is 
to slight the rapid advance of years, and to step by 

lO 



the milestones with hardly a glance of recognition, 
for each succeeding year I look upon as a robber — 
something near and dear is taken from us, and much 
given to us that we do not want — grey hairs a-plenty 
and wrinkles that do not beautify. I was wrought up 
to rather an irritable condition of mind on this par- 
ticular evening, and caustically admonished my stronger 
half that it was not necessary for him to exaggerate 
the years that had slipped by, or proclaim my age from 
the house-tops. I had overheard a few remarks ad- 
dressed by him to the stranger behind the desk — "Yes, 
my wife was here many years ago, before you were 
born. She is revisiting the place. Have you by any 
chance heard of the Vaill homestead?" etc., etc. In 
the darkness of our quiet corner I continued: "No, I 
am not proud to be old. If you are, that is your priv- 
ilege." He laughed aloud at my emphasis. I suppose 
there was something ludicrous in the situation, for I 
laughed, too; but my thoughts would wander restlessly. 
"Do they realize that I am here — those dim, shadowy, 
far-away forms, whose faces look pathetically at me 
as I close my eyes in the darkness — ^Julia, Abbie, Mary, 
the dear old couple they called parents, and my own 
Father, always a luminous spot in my mind. It was 
always his plan to make us happy those summer days 
and evenings. But all seems more ethereal than ever, 
and these strange environments are reality; but tomor- 
row — tomorrow ! 

After a fitful night it came, bright and beautiful 
after the rain; and my spirits rise, as the sunlight plays 
reassuringly through the leaves upon our small break- 
fast-table. At once my son and I start on a reconnoiter- 



II 



ing tour. Just one little familiar sign is not too much 
to hope for, but even so it is still denied us in the 
broad light of day. All save the trees look strange; 
but they seem to nod a welcome, as if to say, "Come, 
walk again beneath our sheltering arms. We remember 
you, a little girl, in your white frock and gay ribbons, 
every Sunday on your way to church. We have stood 
here all these years, growing taller and stronger. But 
you may be sure of us. You always spoke of our 
beauty; and we felt sure that you loved us." But the 
trees could not tell me what had become of the old 
landmarks that I sought. Not that they were all things 
of beauty; but they belonged in my memory, and they 
were lost. 

I had thought out a scheme in the night to unlock 
the door which led to the past, and escape from the 
present associated with hard beds and damp, musty- 
smelling rooms : aggravated by the rain, I would en- 
deavor to purchase a history of old Litchfield. Should 
this fail, I would visit the Library and delve amongst 
ancient lore. So with the spirit of a warrior going 
forth to do or die, I charged upon a young woman who 
held the fort as custodian of a wonderful array of the 
inevitable post-card. My inquiry brought forth the 
information that such a book as I desired could be 
procured at the drug-store on the corner — an osten- 
tatious, new brick building, which seemed to say, 
''Down with the old, and up with the new;" but outside 
of its possibilities to furnish me with one, and only 
one, vital piece of literature I had no interest though 
I have no doubt the owner of the building was a proud 
man. A very bored and preconcerned person within 



12 




Here stood the churcli in which Lyman Beecher preached, 1810-182O 
One-half mile north stood the home where were born Harriet Beecher Stowe, 
Henry Ward Beecher, 1813 
Erected by The Litchfield County University Club, 1908 



and behind the formidable counter pushed a book 
toward me, which he extracted from underneath some- 
where, in response to my somewhat discouraged inquiry. 
It proved to be exactly what I had no hope of finding — 
a little gem, the work of an enthusiast, who had spared 
neither trouble nor money to make it worthy of its 
title — "Historic Litchfield." I feverishly grasp my 
prize, cross the street to the village park, and sit again 
as on the previous evening under the memorial statue 
to the brave lads of Litchfield. Nearby is a testimo- 
nial to the memory of Henry Ward Beecher and Har- 
riet Beecher Stowe — a beautiful work of art in bronze, 
representing their two heads on a medallion circled by a 
wreath of laurel, framed in a huge rock of unhewn 
granite indicative of natural strength and endurance, 
relative to the work of the sculptor and the work of 
nature, as well as to the dominant qualities that the 
subjects themselves suggest. Proud, indeed, were 
Litchfielders to claim the Beecher family as their own 
townspeople. Dr. Lyman Beecher came to them in the 
strength and forcefulness of his young manhood in 1810, 
and preached for many years in their midst as Pastor 
of the Second Congregational Church, growing famous 
as the years rolled by in his fight for temperance and the 
abolition of slavery, sowing seeds that ripened in the 
hands of his children. I remember the Beecher Home 
on the corner of two lovely streets, with magnificent old 
trees under which we would often jog along behind 
Kitty in the full enjoyment of their grateful shade 
and beauty, Julia discoursing proudly on native-born 
genius. We would crane our necks at each repetition as 
if to discover something unusual about the Beecher 

13 



Home which we became eager to point out to visitors. I 
fear that sermons and lectures on vital matters did not 
appeal so strongly to us then though we realized, of 
course, that the Beecher men were wonderful beings and 
we bowed down to them, figuratively speaking, because 
she said so! The Reverend Beecher, the elder, had jour- 
neyed to that bourne from which no traveler returns, 
many years before the advent of the Smith children 
on the scene, but Henry Ward Beecher, the son worthy 
of his Father, was preaching in Plymouth Church, 
Brooklyn, where we lived, so I had my share with Julia 
of proprietorship. As for Harriet Beecher Stowe and 
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," synonymous as they were in our 
minds, they were more alive with interest for us, grip- 
ping our imagination and stirring our feelings in an 
inexplicable way. Now I realize the writer was a 
prophetess with a message for all the world, young 
and old, of justice and humanity, and the world heeded 
the call. 

I used to wonder why all the greatest men in the 
United States selected Litchfield to visit? To be sure, 
they could not have found a more beautiful place, but 
why should not the honors have been more evenly di- 
vided? If the whole Vaill family had not vouched for 
the truth of it, I should have thought Julia weaving 
romances for our entertainment, when she pointed out 
the houses where Washington, Lafayette, Aaron Burr, 
and countless other great men had lived and visited, 
dilating on the attending circumstances, creating visions 
for us of the most dazzling and romantic nature. Oh! 
that wonderful South Street with which I was most 
familiar, with its historic homes and noted owners, 

14 



surely neither time nor death would dare to mar the 
picture. To me Litchfield seemed then, the exempli- 
fication of permanent and unalterable beauty and enjoy- 
ment of life. It now seems to me as if God and time 
had laid a gentle hand where so much merit, worth 
and wisdom has abounded. Longevity has proved nota- 
ble in Litchfield and permanence of ancestral homes 
exceptional. 

This paragraph finds me still sitting on the stone 
seat at the base of the monument. With wondering eyes, 
a train of thoughts are chasing across my thought-tossed 
mind like a driving mist across troubled waters, when 
my son Ormond saunters across the road and sits by my 
side. I awake to the realization of present company, 
as from a trance; he glances significantly at the un- 
opened book which I grasp tightly, as if in fear that it, 
too, might vanish and prove that I am walking in my 
sleep. I open the treasure-trove — "1721-1907"! Just 
where between this big gap do I fit in history? I read — 

"To 

All Lovers of Litchfield 

This Little Book 

Is Dedicated." 

I am surely included in the dedication — though an 
errant lover. True am I, however, for, after forty-two 
years' absence, I am back, drawn thither by my love 
for those dear old days, my pulse quickening as if by 
a magic touch, and the old love springing to fresh life 
out of a long-buried past. 

Almost the first page I turn presents the picture of 
the "Vaill Homestead" — my happy home for many 
summers. Even Ormond is stirred to eagerness and 
would turn the pages more rapidly, did I not stay his 

15 



impetuous hand to linger on the pages of indisputable 
facts and photos. "Did I not tell you, my son!" with 
triumph in my voice — " 'one hundred years and more' 
was what I said. Here it is in print — 'The Vaill Home- 
stead, one hundred and sixty years old/ and all the old 
familiar names are looking at me from the book saying, 
'Here we are, Cora, still living in the pages of his- 
tory!' — 'Herman, Charles, Theodore, Joseph' — I knew 
them all (the 'Reverend Herman L. Vaill and his 
sons')." I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. 
But my son, with his youth and joyous nature, decided 
in favor of the laugh, and I found it easy to rejoice when 
I looked at him. I read on toward the end. "The pres- 
ent owner, Joseph Vaill — " "Yes, I knew Joe," I 
interpolated. "Joe, the soldier-boy, with the chestnut- 
hair, the twinkle in his hazel eyes: he was one who 
understood children — just like all the Vaills." And 
once more I fall to ruminating, when the present active 
young man broke in upon my reverie, "Come, Mother, 
and look at this enormous elm tree." It had a plate upon 
it stating that it had been used as a whipping-post 
in the old Puritanical days. We stood before it in its 
majesty, a grand testimonial to Nature and Mother- 
Earth, while the boy remarked sententiously, "I under- 
stand it has stood alongside the old jail for centuries. I 
trust that the mention of this sombre institution at least 
stirs no tender or personal recollection?" (He casts a 
quizzical, side-long glance my way.) My quest was a 
serious matter, but I could not resist the humor of his in- 
nuendo, and of course smiled a hearty smile. So much 
am I puzzled, however, so many questions crowding 
to my lips, that I determine to find a kindred spirit. 

i6 





Flora Gold Vaill 



Herman Landon Vaill 





Cornelia Smith Vaill 



Joseph H. Vaill 



A little sign swinging in front of a tiny shop, on a 
grassy knoll, across from the nucleus of trade, attracted 
my attention. I drew closer and read, "Ye Olde 
Curiosity Shop." It looked suggestive and interesting. 
I step within. All is silent and deserted, save for the 
old mahogany furniture and colonial knickknacks. If 
only they could unfold the history enacted before their 
inanimate forms! I am conscious of a step coming 
towards me; I turn my head, and behold a pleasant- 
faced old gentleman. Did I say "old"? Do not forget, 
my lady, that you are no longer young enough to adopt 
that patronizing air, even though in this instance ten 
or twelve years may divide you from a contemporane- 
ous point of view. 

I start my little speech rather sadly — I fear some- 
thing after this fashion, "Many years ago"! It re- 
minded me of the octogenarian gravitating between 
eighty and ninety years who figured conspicuously in 
a play called "Hazel Kirke" ("many years ago," alas!) 
The preface to his long and tiresome tale was always 
the same — "Many year-ers ago — ." The stage-folks 
had their cue to leave at his approach; therefore he 
never had an audience, except the legitimate one in 
front that had paid to be entertained, and who laughed 
at the poor old fellow talking to the air. He pro- 
nounced "years" exactly as I have spelled it, as if he 
hated to relinquish his hold upon the word! But it 
was only the "years" with "ago" affixed that interested 
him: the present or future years did not figure in his 
calculations. The tiresome, hackneyed phrase stuck 
in my mind, and I naturally vowed scores of times that 
I never would be guilty of using it. But here it is on 

17 



the tip of my tongue — my plaint, I confess, running 
much in the same groove. The substance of the re- 
mainder of my homily being, "Where, oh, where are 
the milestones of my girlhood?" I pointed across the 
Green significantly. "Ah, you mean the old frame 
building on the corner yonder which was the Mansion 
House?" he said with something that I construed as a 
responsive sigh. "Twice that entire block has been 
swept by fire leaving nothing but ashes," out of which 
had arisen, Phoenix-like, the new shops that confronted 
us. This, then, was the solution of my puzzle and a 
somewhat questionable relief to my mind. Noting my 
interest which re-awakened his memory, he went on, 
"Yes, it was in the early morning hours the last fire 
broke out, while all Litchfield slept. It was a fearful 
sight. The Court House as well as the Hotel you are 
inquiring about was destroyed, in fact, all the buildings 
from Doctor Beckwith's residence on South Street way 
beyond the Court House on West Street, all a mass of 
lurid flames, enough to terrorize all those who looked 
on, and I guess," he said, smiling, "that meant every 
one who could get out of bed, and some didn't take 
time to dress, either." 

The Congregational Church? A new one has taken 
its place. I toss my head disdainfully as he points 
out the pretentious edifice. It is the old one I came 
to adore — the modest one in which I often sat with 
the other children, quite demurely, in the stiff-backed 
pews by the side of my beloved Miss Julia, thinking, 
I fear, of our docile steed hitched outside and of the 
long, lovely ride back home over the hills, the horses 
wading decorously through the brooks as behooved 



them of a Sunday. I am sure they knew they had 
been to church. They could tell by the tolling of 
the bell and the gathering of their clan under the 
sheds and at the hitching-post. They could hear the 
singing of the hymns as the voices came floating out 
to them to the accompaniment of the organ; and the 
droning voice of the preacher reached their senses; so 
that in a vague way they must have realized this day 
was somehow different from the others. So they 
waited patiently, though nothing would induce them 
to hasten their part of the program at the brook. They 
would prolong the pleasure of the trickling waters 
playing over their hoofs and legs, while they sipped the 
clear, cool beverage like old epicureans. They were 
spoiled pets, and never a cross word fell on their ears, 
by virtue of their age — *'Kitty," twenty-two, and "Bill," 
eighteen — the latter having gone through the Civil War 
with Joe as his aide-de-camp — coming back with one 
eye — a veritable hero, vieing with his master for honors. 

All these things were passing through my mind, when 
he of the antiques continued — once more referring to 
the Church — 

"The old Congregational Church which you seek 
has lost its spire, and has been moved back and 
around the corner, while the new edifice occupies the 
original site." "What a sacrilege!" I said, and cast 
a scornful glance in the direction to which he 
pointed. But indignity upon indignity developed — a 
moving-picture show has taken possession of the sacred 
house of God! My son unconsciously sat under the 
same roof the preceding evening, entertained with a 
photo play of trite import — sat thus in the hallowed 

19 



house of my dreams! "If a house could talk!" But the 
boy laughs at my dismay at this discovery: he is young; 
he cannot understand. The world seems out of joint to 
me, the balance terribly disturbed between reverence 
and levity. Is it possible that I am out of tune with the 
times in which I play a part. I am in active enjoyment 
of life, and participate in the marvels of the age; but 
there is an under-current that used not to be, sweeping 
me along to serious thought, even while the old Litch- 
fielder is still talking. I must not be too sentimental. 
"Yes, I went to school with Julia and Abby," he was 
saying. A smile of remembrance illumined his counte- 
nance at the thought of his youth. My next question is 
an anxious one. "I have just read in this book," I went 
on, "that the present owner, Mr. Joseph Vaill, now 
occupies the homestead, but I note that the book was 
published seven years ago — what now?" "Joseph died 
a year ago; but the house was sold several years prior 
to strangers." I winced at the truth I was loath to hear. 
"How far do you call the distance to the Vaill prop- 
erty?" I queried (for so it will always be called despite 
new owners). When he answered, "Two miles," I 
laughed ; I thought it must be five at least, having trav- 
ersed that distance always at such a slow pace, even 
as the humor of our steed inclined. 

In contradistinction to such prosy mode of travel 
stood our fine motor car, with its powerful engine fret- 
ting to be off. It seemed to be saying to me, "Come 
away from age and retrospection, and revel in the power 
I possess, to whisk you ofif two miles in the twinkling of 
an eye." In the car sit husband and son, tolerant and 
half amused at my vivid interest and agitation over a 

20 



foreign spot in which they had never played a part. 
Litchfield was just a country town in their eyes — beauti- 
ful, yes; but so were many others in New England 
through which we had just flown, but lacking the color- 
ing of by-gone days to me. To the credit of our chauf- 
feur be it said, his discernment was rare. He confided to 
my son that if ever he was in a position to select a home 
for himself it would be Litchfield. And now for the 
two-mile dash and a glimpse of the old Homestead, and 
the rocks and trees close by, that I loved. "How I hate 
the idea of strangers!" I am talking to myself, my 
eyes strained for landmarks as we pass over the old 
road. Yes, there is the first brook; and, before I could 
see it, there is the second. Now for a road on the left, 
one to the right — and the house at the fork, we reach 
it, pass it, and, before I can get the attention of Sanford, 
the chauffeur, we are chasing up a long hill through 
dense woods — something crying out to my perceptions, 
"Come back, come back!" and then I fully realize that 
the house at the fork, which looked so small, from the 
car, was my erstwhile home. 

Never in all those summer months had I gone beyond 
the border-land of "our place" into the mysterious 
woods of the strange country beyond, for in the childish 
eye the "Homestead" was the world, the confines of 
which were the Vaill property, where the cows went no 
further because of the stone wall of rocks, on one side 
of which — "our side," we picked bushels of huckle- 
berries, and waded or bathed in the limpid depths of 
the wandering brook. The owner of this paradise was 
the Rev. Herman L. Vaill, a very dear old gentleman 
past eighty years of age, I believe, and retired many 

21 



years from the pulpit. He was a tall, slender man, 
with kindly courteous manner, whom the children sel- 
dom saw, as for the most part he kept the privacy of his 
own room, except for an occasional game of croquet 
or fishing jaunt. One day I saw him crossing the 
meadow, and impulsively ran after him. I had almost 
reached his side when I heard a little scream of pain, 
and saw him put his hand over the bandage which 
covered his face. But I must have been mistaken in my 
surmise, for he smiled reassuringly down at me, and 
began to talk of his friend, Isaac Walton, who had 
initiated him into the secret hiding-places of the beau- 
tiful speckled trout with the bright-hued dots that he 
brought home to us. He said kindly, but firmly, when 
we reached the brook, "You must run back now, my 
dear, for the trout would be frightened at sight of a 
little girl; and, besides, Julia would miss you and be 



anxious." 



I learned several years later that he was suffering 
from an incurable malady. He was a Christian soldier 
of heroic mould indeed, fighting the good fight with 
marvellous self-repression and fortitude, just as he 
shouldered his gun and went forth to battle for his 
country in the war of 1812. Once only did I get an 
inkling of this truth from him of his condition. I was 
coming across the field from the brook where I had 
been wading, with my shoes and stockings in my hand; 
I brushed against a hornet's nest in the ground — cov- 
ered from my sight by the grass, the indignant occupants 
of which swarmed angrily about me; fear lent speed to 
my feet, and I flew over the stubble screaming with one 
persistent hornet sticking to my bare leg with ven- 



22 



geance, despite my frantic efforts to dislodge it. I 
reached the lower step of the porch where I fell ex- 
hausted, with the tears rolling down my face. The old 
gentleman was the only witness to my calamity, stand- 
ing pole in hand, his face still bandaged on account of 
that "terrible toothache." He said I must learn to 
master myself, and proceeded, "You cry for one hornet, 
while under this bandage there are a hundred hornets 
that sting me all day long." My mind was diverted; 
I nursed my poor leg silently, and did as he bade me, 
applying some wet earth as a balm to the sting. One 
summer we came and missed his gentle presence. We 
were told at first that he had gone off on a long jour- 
ney. We did not dream that he would never return 
to the home where he first saw the light of day. As 
time wore on, however, I vaguely felt that the hornets 
had killed him, but asked no questions, dreading the 
truth. They tried to spare us as much as possible the 
knowledge of sad happenings, that we might gather 
strength in our youth to fight our own sorrows in that 
big realm called the Future. Now I understand how 
brave and unselfish they all were — he and his children 
who emulated him. 

But while a whirlwind of thought is creating visions 
for me, we are still flying on in the auto, because the 
road is too narrow to admit of turning — not built for 
1 91 5 travellers — not mentioned in the "blue book." I 
am rather chagrined that I did not quicker recognize 
a spot that I had boasted was fixed forever in my mem- 
ory; but it really did look very different as we passed 
it in an automobile. However, we are back at the gate 
before the two ladies who were loitering on the lawn 

23 



had parted — a gentleman on the porch in the back- 
ground. Sanford alighted quickly, and in accordance 
with my request he inquired, "Is this the Vaill home- 
stead?" The lady whom he addressed nodded in the 
affirmative, and her reassuring smile put me more at 
ease as she glanced my way. I then also alighted, 
approached her rather nervously and humbly requested 
that I might be allowed to walk about the place, the 
importance of which request being rather exaggerated 
in my mind ; then, glancing at the other lady, who wore 
a hat and was apparently making her adieux, I came 
to a sudden halt, looking at her intently — I am afraid 
almost tragically — I said, ''You are Mrs. Joseph Vaill 
— and I am Cora"! The tears were in my eyes. I 
turned away from the stranger to hide them, but not 
until I had caught the swift look of recognition in the 
eyes of "Nealy Smith," who in those days was engaged 
to be married to "Joe" when I was there as a little girl. 
I had even gone to call on her with Joe's sister to offer 
congratulations. 

I forgot conventionalities, when, at the invitation of 
the owner, Mr. Bertram L. Lewis, I entered the old 
house. Indeed, I took possession of it for the time 
being, darting here and there, calling to my escorts to 
come and see the little nooks and crannies built there 
over one hundred years ago. Troops of intimacies came 
swarming back to my memory just like bees, buzzing 
toward this cubby-hole in the wall, that big beam over- 
head which hardly admits of Ormond or his father 
standing up straight. "If you open the door in the cor- 
ner of the room which leads to the attic, you will find 
pencil-markings beginning low, and growing higher 

24 



inch by inch: these are the relative heights of the chil- 
dren who have laughed and romped on those old attic- 
stairs, finding treasure-troves in the antiquated trunks 
stored above — furbelows for the girls, and accoutre- 
ments for the boys, when the theatrical fever was high." 
Our hostess, Mrs. Lewis, opens the door for our inspec- 
tion. She must be a lady of sentiment to allow all that 
scribbling to remain, even in the face of temptation — 
for new paint and varnish is everywhere in evidence. 

I do not dare to linger long at this sanctuary, but pass 
over to the room across the hall which conjures up 
anticipations of visitors, the guest room, where abided 
the most cherished of guests — my Father most fre- 
quently, and now and again my Mother, so fond of 
travel that she takes advantage of the opportunities 
that come with the summer months, when her chicks 
are in clover, to see some of the wonders of the world. 
"Their travel will come later." Just now they nestle 
contentedly in Mother Nature's lap. I seek the old 
"Sleepy Hollow" lounge; but, of course, it has run its 
course. How we did abuse it — alighting on it in a 
row like swallows, to study the giant map of the United 
States which hung above. This was the kind of travel 
which appealed to us, and long and many were the 
wonderful trips that we took. Our hostess points out 
of a rear window to a beautiful tree under which she 
saw only yesterday a young deer. She says there are 
many in the woods. I do not remember ever to have 
had the felicity of seeing such a pretty animal in my 
day. I suppose the quiet of the present time has wooed 
them thither. 

As I pass through the house I note the rooms all 

25 



changed in pretty summer furnishings, but otherwise 
just the same, except the new bath-room installed in 
the wee room that was my studio, and where with paint 
and brushes I spent many an industrious and happy 
hour. Here is where I made the picture of the perch, 
just drawn from the water, arrayed on a bed of grass 
and clover leaves. I worked rapidly and long that day 
to catch the delicate and efifervescent coloring of the 
little fellow, all shining wet, who had been drawn from 
the limpid depths of the little brook near by. Again, I 
strove to reproduce some of the sweet peas that Miss 
Julia nursed and coaxed up the sticks and on to the 
strings, until they became hardy and strong to climb up 
the back porch with their lovely pinks and purples. I 
still possess not only the memory but the little bunch 
of violets, on canvas, that was transferred there from 
the garden. How she did love flowers! The pansies 
were her favorites, with their wonderful velvet leaves 
and variegated coloring of deep and rich hues; and 
the trailing arbutus, with the first pink blush of early 
spring. They reached me every season before I could 
get there from my studies. She would pluck them 
from the damp earth in the dense woods, and pack 
the messengers in wet moss with some bright red ber- 
ries, and send them to her "Cora Girl." I would bury 
my face in the fragrance of the blossoms and envy 
her. A child's mind is a wonderful piece of mech- 
anism, holds so tenaciously to small things, absorbs 
things it never puts in speech, and stores them up, 
sometimes forever, sometimes till a spark touches the 
spot. 

Mrs. Joseph Vaill also felt the spell under which I 

26 



was laboring. There were old memories aroused for 
her, too, old ghosts that talked silently, while a fresh 
bereavement showed in her saddened, thoughtful face, 
as she looked at me with the same sweet brown eyes as 
of yore. But she was not as familiar with the old house 
as I, for she lived in the "Red House"* with its "lares 
and penates" of other generations, on the road to 
Bantam Lake. It was a dusty little country road in 
those days ; but now it proudly flaunts itself on the maps 
as a "State road," broad and fine as a State road should 
be, and is called Bantam Road. 

It developed that the present owner of the place is 
a cousin of Mrs. Vaill's — that sounds so much more 
soothing than "strangers." We had a delightful visit, 
and, though I may never see our kind host and hostess 
again, I shall never cease to feel grateful for their 
courteous hospitality. 

I am not sure that looking backward is a wise or 
profitable thing to do, but it has its fascinations, and 
lures one unwittingly on, tugs at the heart-strings, and 
is so insistent that the time comes when we yield to 
the still, small voice. Then do we become immersed 
in retrospection, regardless in this instance of the incon- 
sistency of a recital where past and present allusions 
have become hopelessly entangled, and where magical 
jumps from one era to another take place, of which no 
legitimate chronologer would be guilty; with this apol- 
ogy, I will again take up the broken thread and make 
another connecting knot. 



*Recl House is a Bissill Homestead and pre-revoliitionary by a great many years. 
The birthplace of Joe Vaill's two boys, Robinson and Theodore, and the maiden home 
of their maternal grandmother. 

27 



I have omitted to mention in our inspection of the 
house of dreams that one door remained closed, but it 
did not bar my re-awakened memory from looking 
within. Lingering on the stair-case, I said to Mrs. Vaill, 
who was just behind, "That was Aunt Hopkins' room" 
— pointing to the door. "Yes?" she replied interroga- 
tively. She only lived through part of the first summer 
I came. She was the only real old lady I had ever 
seen, and now I believe exceptionally sweet and dainty 
looking — just the kind you read about, or those you 
see occasionally looking at you from the canvas, 
where some artist has softened the lines of age and 
idealized the face. She was the embodiment of all 
these graces in actual life, with the pink and white com- 
plexion of a baby — a silver band of hair under her 
lace cap, her mild blue eyes and gentle ways making 
her a most lovable creature. The children never thought 
of carrying on a conversation with her, for she seemed 
to have relapsed into a contented silence which we 
felt it would be an intrusion to break, accentuated, I 
fear, by lack of hearing. 

She seemed always to be sitting in her own easy 
chair, looking immaculate. It appeared to me that 
Miss Julia — who arose early for the purpose — enjoyed 
dressing her as she would a doll, in those soft gray 
cashmeres with the white lace and linen collars to match 
the caps. One noon-day meal something seemed to 
stick in the old lady's throat. She had a coughing-spell, 
and was quickly spirited to her room on the ground- 
floor, just off the dining-room. We all looked up in- 
quiringly when some one of the family came back to 
say, "It is all right, children — you may be excused." 

28 



We scampered away to our pleasures. About an hour 
passed when Miss Julia reappeared in our midst on 
the lawn. *'My dears," she said, with a little tremor in 
her voice, "Aunt Hopkins is dead. I want you all to 
come quietly and say good-by, for God has called her 
soul to Heaven. There is nothing to fear or be sorry 
about, for she has been with us ninety years, and has 
died of old age." We all went in on tip-toe, leaned over 
and kissed her warm, soft face, and while her eyes were 
closed a lingering smile of sweetness rested on her lips. 
It was my first knowledge of death, and the terrors I 
had conjured up were dissipated at once through the 
ever-thoughtful and intuitive Julia. An indescribable 
awe, however, always took possession of me when pass- 
ing through Aunt Hopkins' room, while my mind con- 
jured up an angel hovering over the hallowed spot 
where she had breathed her last; and I vaguely thought 
that ages and ages hence "I must die, too, just like old 
Aunt Hopkins," and ''there was nothing of which to be 
afraid." Every detail of funeral arrangements was car- 
ried out unknown to us in the early hours of the morn- 
ing, and save for the under-current of thoughts, which 
must have been passing swiftly through the minds of 
those who realized the whole truth, no thought of sor- 
row touched our young hearts. So this was death! So 
quiet, so painless, almost considerate to come just at the 
proper moment when Aunt Hopkins seemed quite ready 
to take the journey, in her passivity and apparent indif- 
ference to this world's doings. 

The only time I ever remember to have had an 
extended conversation with the dear saint was one 
summer afternoon when she had been wheeled in her 

29 



chair to a corner of the piazza, under the shade of 
the big maple tree, to dream, and follow our move- 
ments on the croquet ground. I remember I was 
dressed for the afternoon in one of those dainty 
white gowns that my Mother loved to buy or have 
made for me. It was a white pique skirt, reaching to 
the knee, braided "by hand," with a cute little Eton- 
jacket effect to match, worn over a soft mull and lace 
waist. A green sash gave the finishing touch, for that 
was my Father's favorite color. I felt conscious that 
I looked attractive. Miss Julia had said so, as she 
examined and admired the artistic design of the braided 
pattern of my gown while she smoothed my waving 
brown hair which fell to my waist. At the close of 
the game, as I passed Aunt Hopkins in her chair, I 
stopped to say a pleasant word. I was considerably 
piqued when she remarked, "My child, thy frock is 
much too short." After a surprised pause I urged, 
"But it is the style." "An indecent style," she said, the 
color heightening in her fair old face. "When I was 
young, like thee, I wore pantalettes to hide my limbs." 
"How funny," I laughed, "just like the colored prints 
in the old magazines inside." "Not funny," she re- 
plied warmly, "but maidenly and modest." She was 
such an old, old lady that I could afiford to humor her, 
for I was young and knew all about styles; so I said 
as soothingly as I knew how, "Well, perhaps you are 
right, Aunt Hopkins, but you know styles do change." 
"Yes, yes, my dear, I know," shaking her head rather 
sadly. I bent my head to catch her voice which had 
dropped low from fatigue, "Thou art a good lass," 
she said, "but it is a shameless fashion." 

30 



We emerge from the doorway, in and out of which 
that little maiden I used to be, had run and skipped 
with the others of which I am writing and thinking 
many, many times. We now sit on the new side piazza; 
the conversation becomes somewhat general with an 
attempt on the part of my husband to drop the personal 
note. My son, instinctively realizing the futility of this 
design, caters to his mother's psychic condition of mind. 
He admires the trees and the rocks (my old friends). 
I pointed them out by name. "Did you ever hear of 
naming rocks?" I asked. "These are all named like 
friends, and just as familiar to us children. That rock 
is "Harry," and that one "George," in compliment to 
two dear lads who lived in Tenafly, N. J.; and that 
huge rock just outside the gate, under the elm, was 
called "The War Rock," for on top of this were perched 
the Vaill boys when the crisis in their young lives was 
reached, and they decided to go to war and fight for 
their country. Happily, they all returned; but a near 
neighbor was bereft of her three sons. A tall, gaunt, 
smileless woman she was. "I don't like her; she is so 
cross," I had said to Miss Julia at whose behest I 
had tripped gaily up the little garden-path to the back 
door and handed her the mail on our way home from 
the post-office. She took it from my outstretched hand 
automatically, without a word of thanks, and turned her 
face within to the gloom which enveloped the kitchen. 
I could not imagine anyone not enjoying letters — my 
own were so precious — but my kind Miss Julia, who 
seemed to understand everything, said to me, "There 
is no letter that will bring back her boys, and never a 
line will come again to her from one of them. There 

31 



are no thanks in her heart for anyone, for her heart is 
broken, and tragedy has written all those lines in her 
hard face. Once she was a comely woman, with the 
love-light of motherhood in her eyes; but now the 
thought is uppermost in her mind that never again in 
this life will she be called 'Mother,' and never again 
will she greet, or shyly caress, her own care-free, happy 
lads, who made the modest farmer's dwelling a beau- 
tiful place in her eyes, and cheery and bright, too, with 
their sallies and laughter. Her life has been a narrow 
one, but the routine of duties was sweetened by the 
thought that it sheltered and protected her little ones. 
She never had time, or mayhaps the inclination, to seek 
pleasure or diversion through any other channel. So 
now, robbed of the strong young arms on which she 
was beginning to lean, and the atmosphere which youth 
and youthful aspiration creates, she has grown hard and 
unresponsive. Not only has she closed the front door to 
the home, and shut out the sunlight from within, that 
she might not see the empty rooms so plainly, but she has 
shut the door of her heart as well, and no ray from 
the outside world has the magic to penetrate where 
only her boys had held sway, and they carried the keys 
of her heart to their graves." The next time I stopped 
it was with understanding; she must have read it in 
my eyes, for there was a slight relaxing of her immobile 
expression, and as time passed on my coming now and 
then would be the occasion of a feeble smile playing 
over the sad, stern face. She was indeed a martyr. 

Another thread has snapped, I tie another knot and 
am reunited with the group on the piazza, my son is 
asking where the old croquet ground was — the scene 

32 



of so many battles royal. "There is the ground," I 
said, pointing to the only level spot on the knoll; "but 
it was much larger in those days." They all laughed, 
and my husband added, "So like a woman!" But how 
could that be the wide field of our earnest endeavors 
for championship? Such exciting contests they were, 
and I really did deserve my reputation as "Champion." 
My Father often took a mallet and played on my side. 
I loved to take his ball along with mine, giving evi- 
dence of my superiority which protected his interests. 
These games were the inspiration of the following 
poem : 

HOW A HEART WAS LOST 

The sun's latest rays the maple trees gilding, 

And stretched on the greensward I dreamingly lay, 
When Flora's sweet voice stopped my air-castle-building 

By bantering me up to a game of croquet. 
I instantly jumped to my feet all a-tremble, 

And seized on a mallet the game to begin ; 
And I said, "Dearest Flora, I cannot dissemble — 

I play for a heart, and am anxious to win!" 

So beginning the contest with such an endeavor 

As only is made when one plays for a heart, 
I inwardly vowed she would conquer me never, 

And brought all my skill into play from the start. 
I led all the way, and I thought the game over — 

I reached the home-stake, and I might have gone out ; 
But I gave her a chance of becoming a "rover" 

When I saw the vexed beauty beginning to pout. 

Oh, fatal mistake! How it grieves me to tell it! 

I thought my poor heart with vexation would burst. 
When she sent my ball spinning away with her mallet. 

Then passed through her wickets and hit the stake first ! 
In vain for another encounter I pleaded — 

With victory flushed, in a voice full of glee. 
She said, "All your vows and your prayers are unheeded — 

The wife of a 'rover' I never will be!" 

33 



The time is long passed, but a sad spell comes o'er me, 

And back to the old spot my thoughts fly away. 
And a scene on the emerald lawn flits before me, 

When I think of the heart that I lost at croquet ! 
And now let me say to all jubilant lovers; 

"When playing with Cupid be fully awake — 
With the game in your hand, 'tis unwise to be rovers — 

If you wish to be certain, go straight to your stake." 

To take up the thread again, I will waive all further 
effort to make the sketch a continuous statement of facts 
and fancies, but put my thoughts down just as they 
grew and flourished during my short stay at Litchfield 
and came trooping to me after my return to Sayville, 
L. L, where I whiled away some pleasant hours in 
jotting them down. 

The soil at one of the gateways was very sandy, and 
the boys built there such wonderful cities, with towers 
and bridges, tunnelling the mountains and building 
tracks, on which they ran miniature trains. Our visi- 
tors were few but when an occasional wagon-wheel 
crunched the cities which the young engineers reared, 
it gave them fresh incentive to rebuild. They were 
marvellous constructors, especially Charlie, who died 
so young, in his twentieth year. He had a technical 
mind and gave great promise as a musician. He was 
a composer in his teens, and in my eyes a genius, with 
just such a temperament, mild and non-combatant as 
became a genius. 

Glancing up from our sand-heap, at the top of the 
hill in a snug little nest, lived Gertie Plumb. I can 
see her now as I write, coming down in her pink sun- 
bonnet under which the sun is striving to get a glimpse 
of her sweet face, a basket swinging on her arm. This 

34 



picture used to make me think of Little Red Riding 
Hood, though she didn't wear a red cloak and there 
were no more wolves, for Captain Joseph Vaill had 
driven them ofif this very spot over a hundred years ago, 
but that is ancient history and just now we are inter- 
ested in reference to the little pink lady with something 
tasty hidden in her basket for "Grandma Vaill." Her 
frock is pink, too, the same hue as her bonnet, from 
which a few little curls have escaped and her eyes look 
clear and innocent. She was as shy as the squirrels that 
used to scamper over our rocks. No one but Miss Julia 
ever heard the lassie talk except in monosyllables on 
the occasion of these rare visits. She would stand and 
watch us at play with a certain wistful expression but 
resisting our efiforts to draw her within the circle of our 
games. I imagine that she was a busy little bee, lending 
a helping hand to keep the farm house up there tidy and 
home-like. Mother's helpmate, who did not affiliate 
naturally with little city drones. Miss Julia would al- 
ways appear at the psychological moment and so would 
Gertie's smiles and dimples, reminding me of the wild 
pink roses that had such a habit of climbing over our 
stone walls. Then, arm in arm, they would wander off 
by themselves; such a way as Julia had to invite con- 
fidence! I noticed, too, that the basket was never car- 
ried back empty for these were real neighbors and an 
exchange of favors was as ready as an exchange of 
greetings. I don't remember Gertie's mother except 
faintly nor do I remember her father, but he must have 
been a very good-natured man to allow us to ride on top 
of his hay cart laden with its rich crop of hay. I 
suspicion that Frank Bissell pulled the wires that placed 

35 



me on such a high seat of honor, thereby creating for 
me the most thrilling experience of my life up to that 
time, and, oh, the delicious perfume of that new-mown 
hay! 

I thought then that Mr. Frank considered it a privi- 
lege to assist Mr. Plumb in the harvesting season, that 
he enjoyed driving the horses from on top, like Her- 
cules as he seemed to me, but the ride was a short 
one in comparison with the long time it took to throw 
the hay up so deftly with the big fork until a load 
was completed, and I know now that Frank must have 
had some other incentive than mere love of work. 
Monetary considerations never entered my mind then, 
as Parents always attended to such trifling considera- 
tions. On reaching the barn we would wait patiently 
while Frank began the process of unloading until he 
promised he would let us know when and then we 
would scamper home. During the interval before that 
all-important summons reached us Julia's friend Frank 
must have labored long and diligently to arrange that 
wagon load just for us, and how thankful everybody 
was if only the skies were clear and the sun would shine 
while this work was going on, for we had terrible thun- 
der storms sometimes when we were all corraled within, 
peeking timidly forth at the flashes of lightning — and 
drawing a little closer together when there were peals 
upon peals of thunder — our attention was diverted by 
the ever-resourceful Julia suggesting that we should 
take off our shoes and stockings in preparation for a 
grand rush outdoors — simultaneously with the sun's ap- 
pearance and accompanying rainbow — to paddle in the 
big pools under the trees before they disappeared into 

36 



the earth, and to swoop down upon the plump yellow 
apples that were dropped from the branches by the 
violence of the storm. Such a scampering about! How 
it stirs me to recall the antics of those days! It seems 
to me I could go on indefinitely thus. 

At sight of the old barn my memory runs riot. I re- 
counted the many plays and tableaux enacted there — at 
times most thrilling, as when a band of diminutive but 
savage Indians, with war-paint and feathers, high up 
under the eaves of the slanting roof on the hay-mow, 
were planning a desperate attack on an adjoining hay- 
mow. At this juncture, very often, Julia — who was 
young enough to be our playmate as well as mature 
enough to be our mentor — would appear, and we would 
instantly forget all animosities existing between tribes, 
and clamor for a story — one of those wonderful real 
stories. She had such a gift for telling stories; and her 
favorite topic out in the barn, after Litchfield lore, was 
the far-away land of China. She described the im- 
mensity and proportions of the wall that hid the 
heathen nation from all human kind, and told us of 
their mysterious doings. The secrecy of their lives 
fascinated and held our attention the while we munched 
the taffy-candy she had freshly made to tickle our 
palates. 

Then the time would arrive to feed the chickens and 
diligently hunt for eggs. On tip-toe of expectation, 
not to frighten the setting hens, we would move stealth- 
ily about peering into all sorts of hiding places which 
would outwit the ingenuity of man to plan. Those 
Vaill chickens were a knowing lot; so was old Minnie 
the cat, a feline fixture with so many broods of kittens 

37 



to her credit that she was a phenomenon in our eyes. 
We each had a pet kitten, with no end of competition 
for respective merits; but our season of proprietary 
rights was short; it was wonderful on our return the 
following spring to learn of their propensities for get- 
ting '4ost in the woods." Their evident fickleness soon 
weaned us from their memory, and we transferred our 
affections to the new lot. Had their sad fate really 
been made known to us, I suppose we would have been 
irreconcilable. But of course it would have been im- 
possible for all of old Minnie's progeny to have become 
domiciled at the hearthstone. 

My chief delight was to watch the swallows dart 
like meteors in and out of the old barn, perching for a 
second in the shadow on the rafters beyond all reach; 
or, perhaps, wheeling about and flying directly out 
without alighting, in a nervous fashion — their lithe, 
clear-cut outline cleaving the air like an arrow. As 
the sun fell upon them at their exit, I would catch the 
blue of their wings, like unto the illusive shade of the 
blueberry — at times black, and again its own blue. I 
do not remember ever to have seen a swallow rest on 
the ground like other birds, or even on the trees; they 
appear to be ever on the wing — the typical "bird of 
passage." At times I have followed their movements 
over the water, skimming close, as I have seen a wind- 
blown sail, then rising without effort, far above the 
danger of the waves. I wondered if they liked to hear 
our voices in the old barn, and were speculating as to 
the meaning of our actions — no doubt just as mysterious 
to them as their oft-repeated and purposeless flights up 

to the rafters were to us. 

38 



But follow me into the land of long ago through the 
immaculate kitchen where Hannah used to preside — 
the nicest darkie girl that ever lived. She had danc- 
ing eyes, very, very white teeth and a healthy laugh, 
such as used to magnetize the children and keep them 
"under foot," until their best friend would appear on 
the scene — whose name began with "J," and who with 
pretended severity would "shoo" us all out like unto 
the chickens who had flown from their coop and were 
scratching on forbidden soil. Ofif we would scamper, 
peeking in at the windows from without with vigilant 
eyes for a signal to return, when the coast was clear, 
from our colored ally. I used to think I should like 
to take her home and keep her in our kitchen; but out 
of fear or respect for our Irish contingency I never 
mentioned this desire, though I believe my Mother 
would have sympathized with the idea, as she lived in 
the South in the days of slavery and owned a little 
colored girl — presented to her by my Grandfather, T 
presume. What a strange idea! But Hannah was 
free, and the Vaill boys helped to make her so. I am 
sure she had gratitude in her heart, for she was just 
that kind of a creature, an unspoiled product of the 
South, who had drifted into a snug harbor where her 
mistress, "Mother Vaill," was a Christian who radiated 
peace and comfort, and whose daughter Julia was a 
natural-born philanthropist. 

A kitchen in a farmhouse, where gentlewomen pre- 
side, is a very different affair from a kitchen in a brown- 
stone house in the City — or such were my deductions at 
that tender age. Miss Abby, too, was a strong factor in 
the household. She went a step farther than the eman- 

39 



cipation of the colored race, and told Hannah that if she 
lived long enough she would be able to vote. She might 
as well have promised her a kingdom, but she was not 
joking. I heard dark hints at home that Abby was 
"Woman's Rights." I had a very incomplete idea as to 
exactly what that involved. It did not sound like a 
compliment, but I was sure that Abby was very femi- 
nine and appealing, very conscientious and earnest, and 
eager to help in a monetary way in the up-keep of her 
home and loved ones. I used to feel so sorry when I 
saw her poring over voluminous volumes big enough to 
crush her — all leading up to Ann Harbor, Mich., where 
she was finally graduated as an M. D. Years later 
I saw her established in an office in the City. (I mean 
New York, of course.) If besides her diploma of 
efficiency, her kind, sympathetic face could bring her 
patients, and her earnest endeavor to put her shoulder 
to the wheel could be rewarded, she would have suc- 
ceeded; but her health broke down, for here is where 
woman cannot compete with man, even with a Vaill 
brain; so she was obliged to forfeit her dearly-bought 
knowledge, and retire from practice after a long strug- 
gle. I wonder if she can see from on high the army 
of Suffragettes marching along toward the fulfillment 
of her Utopian dreams. 

There is such a troop of memories rushing in upon 
me that I seem eager to record, I can't quite understand 
the impulse. After all, what does it matter what took 
place over forty years ago in a little inconspicuous spot 
on the globe? Even an inconsequent conversation with 
a poor soul who had escaped the bondage of slavery, 
and was a human being amongst us, clamors for repre- 

40 



sentation on these unimportant pages; but the eyes that 
might have read the lines, the hearts that might have 
throbbed at the reading, are all gone forever from the 
Homestead and from this wide world — but that is a 
sad thought. 

What I started to write was an amusing memory, 
with a desire to display my knowledge of the South. 
I said one day to Hannah, "Do you know the prin- 
cipal products of North Carolina?" Her eyes opened 
wide and round with a perplexed look, too suggestive 
for words. "Well, I mean, do you know what they 
raise mostly in North Carolina?" "Niggers," was her 
instant rejoinder, light breaking through her alert 
senses. I laughed so heartily for a few moments that 
the conversation was necessarily suspended. "Guess 
again," I said. "There are four things, but only one 
alive, and it isn't 'niggers.' " "Cotton," she ventured. 
"Good guess, but that isn't right." "Then I clar to 
goodness it must be watermillions." "No," I said tri- 
umphantly, eager for the disclosure. "The products 
are pitch, tar and turpentine, and mullets in abund- 
ance." It was her turn to laugh now — such a cascade 
of chuckles and ripples! Her effort to suppress the 
flood, accompanied by such queer gyrations, made me 
speechless. When she sobered sufficiently to talk she 
said, "Well, chile, I dunna bout bundance of dem mults 
in Carlina, but down dar in Georgy, whar I cum from, 
I kin see de millions shiny-like in de grass, and it look 
like dar aint nuffin in de wide world cept dem ar water- 
millions. But for lor sakes, chile, how ever did you 
learn all dat ere?" "Why, you see, Hannah," I said — a 
little piqued at the reception of my vast fund of knowl- 

41 



edge — "my Mother was educated at a young ladies' 
seminary at New Berne, North Carolina." This por- 
tentous finale seemed to sober her from gay to grave. 
From this day she viewed me in a different light from 
the others, for there was love in her heart, and longing, 
too, "I reckon," for old "Georgy." I came closer than 
aught else in her strange environments to those long- 
ings which grow in every human heart for the place 
where they were born. Was I not, too, a "product" 
of one who loved that Southern clime? "Lor, Honey" 
— I can hear her say — "how you dun got such little 
feet?" She would get right down on her knees to look 
at them, and roll her eyes, to my delight. Her own 
pedal extremities were certainly on a generous scale. 
My long, waving hair, too, was always a great source 
of admiration, such a contrast in its smoothness to her 
own short, kinky locks; and as for my finery, her 
ecstacy knew no bounds. It was well for my bump of 
vanity that Hannah's influence was undermined by my 
perception of her limitation to judge. After the reve- 
lation of my Mother's affinities and attachment to the 
South, Hannah was on the qui vive to catch a glimpse 
of her. On the occasion of her next visit thereafter I 
caught a pair of black eyes, with a hungry look in them, 
following the flitting form of my Mother about the 
grounds. Her shyness prevented a closer inspection, 
and she almost collapsed when I took my Mother's 
hand and pulled her in to speak to her humble admirer, 
who behaved in a most aggravating manner, for while 
she showed her white teeth, she remained stupidly quiet. 
It was after my Mother's departure that I made a dis- 
covery. Hannah was a tease. "Sho, Honey, dat not 

42 



yo Ma; she, sho nuff, a chile hessef — yo foolin dis po 
gal." "No, indeed, Hannah" — I insisted almost on the 
verge of tears — "she really is my Mother. You see she 
came North when she was sixteen, and married my 
Father just a few months afterwards." But she would 
shake her head dubiously and repeat "Dat ere young 
woman no mammy of a big gal like you." Then Julia 
the peacemaker would interfere with a reproachful 
glance in the direction of the offender, which seemed to 
indicate that some of the conversation had not escaped 
her. "Never mind her teasing, darling; some folks are 
not as blind as they appear" — a sheepish look and a 
guilty giggle from the dark one. "Only this morning a 
certain girl said, 'Lor! Mistis Jula, Miss Cor and her 
Ma jes like two peas 'n a pod.' " Julia was a wonderful 
mimic. We all laughed heartily, and that was the end 
of this chapter. 

Even the out-buildings, though divested of grace and 
beauty, had a halo of their own. Just outside the 
kitchen door, to the right a few steps, was the wood- 
shed, part of which was partitioned off for the work- 
shop, containing the wherewithal for the rehabilitation 
of all things visible, — each one who entered adopting 
the necessary trade for the moment suited to his or her 
purpose. A row of paint-pots on an upper-shelf, with 
a lining in each of about an inch of glutinous substance ; 
while in the bottom of the receptacle — tin cans being 
most popular — remained perennially a few inches of 
liquid paint. We all had open sesame here, with one 
exaction imposed, that we should envelope ourselves in 
overalls or voluminous ginghams — according to sex, 
that were kept on tap for this purpose ; and then — paste, 

43 



whittle, paint or carve to our hearts' content. The boys 
modelled some marvels in boat-craft, for which the girls 
would contrive queer homespun-looking sails of un- 
bleached muslin. These composite creations of our 
united efforts, admired as they were in the shop, seldom 
stood the test of poise and equilibrium when consigned 
to their ultimate and natural destination — the waves, 
their dignity being considerably compromised on such 
occasions, because of their tendency to turn over and 
navigate obstinately in this wise, though sometimes the 
weight of a few pebbles as ballast would cause great 
rejoicing among the skippers for a few seconds. 

I was busy in the shop one day with the huge, flat 
brush — so unwieldy in my hand accustomed to handle 
the tiny camel's hair brushes. Charlie had asked me 
to paint his newly-modelled boat bright red, flattering 
my artistic touch, when I caught sight of Minnie with 
a bird in her mouth sneaking up into the wood-shed. 
I turned my head that I might not see the bedraggled 
wings of the dead songster, storing up a mighty lecture 
for a certain cat. I was in a trap myself — both hands 
besmeared with carmine, even if it were not too late 
to rescue the little victim of Minnie's rapacity. Later 
in the day when she came purring around to see if her 
pussies were being properly treated, I unbottled the 
vials of my wrath. ''Oh, you wicked cat! So you 
do not exactly approve of the way your darlings are 
held in bondage with the ribbon harnesses attached to 
the paper chariots? You have feelings, for now you 
show anxiety. It does not hurt your babies — only 
puzzles them; but do you think of the little nestlings 
that are probably waiting for their mother to come and 

44 



feed them — the mother-bird you have killed! It is not 
your first offense, either, and it is a wanton cruelty, for 
it was not necessary for you to appease your appetite 
thus, as your sleek sides prove, and many are the tid- 
bits passed over to you. I want you to understand, 
Mrs. Cat, that I come from a long line of bird-lovers. 
My Grandfather was as skilled in catching mocking- 
birds as your Mr. Vaill is in catching trout, only he 
brought them home to tame and care for, away down 
South, where he lived many years, in North Carolina. 
My Mother, raised in this atmosphere, loved birds, and 
bred and raised them as naturally as she did her little 
children. They were always a part of our family 
scheme." 

Once she left the steamer at Queenstown and went 
ashore to seek an Irish goldfinch, which she purchased 
and brought back aboard the vessel. Lying in my 
tiny berth, I watched her solicitously studying the 
wants of the little fellow, too frightened to sing, tossed 
in his cage to the pitching of the mighty boat as she 
dove into the big waves. All the while I was thinking 
part of this and imparting the rest to the culprit, she 
was looking at me with a wise and fixed gaze as if to 
say, "Cats must be cats, little girl; and think of my 
little ones lost in the woods." I did think, and relented 
a bit, and concluded that Minnie was a good cat, as 
cats went; but I would never have a cat, because I loved 
birds, and I have steadfastly adhered to this principle. 

As we often sat at eventide on the porch, one would 
question the other what he would "give an old bachelor 
to keep house with?" That old shed with its multi- 
farious contents gave me the secret cue for an inex- 

45 



haustible supply of contributions, that none but an old 
bachelor could use; but in this game to laugh is to 
lose, and I always lost. What did we do in the even- 
ings? I will tell you, my dear. After a light supper 
of bread and cheese and kisses, or at least quite as dainty 
a repast of fresh eggs from "our hens," plenty of rich 
cream from "our cows," fruit from "our trees and 
bushes," incomparable graham gems and ginger-bread 
made by "our Miss Julia," we walked up Sunset Hill 
in the rear of "our cottage" — quite a pull too, and were 
generally at the crest to see the sun go down behind the 
distant mountain — Mount Tom, it was — that towered 
above the rest, and where lingered about his head the 
last gold and red streaks, always a fascinating kaleido- 
scope of gorgeous coloring arranged for our especial 
benefit, inasmuch as we were apparently the only be- 
ings visible. Then we would retrace our steps — Julia 
the shepherdess and her frolicsome lambkins. It is 
said that the one white lamb most precious in her sight 
changed color as he grew apace, and became almost 
proverbially black as he joined the big sheep on the 
broad highway of life, where she could not follow, and 
that he harassed her declining years even unto the end 
of her journey. She had "mothered" him ever since 
the moment that he had opened his baby eyes in this 
world, lying by the side of his young mother, a trans- 
planted white rose, who had died three weeks after 
giving him birth, in a large city — for some inscrutable 
reason, about which I always kept wondering. 

Mary was that sacrificed little mother, resem- 
bling the Madonna in her purity and sweetness, as I re- 
member her in the reflected light of my girlhood as I 

46 



would a lovely picture. A transformation has taken 
place with the flying years — the baby to manhood 
grown; poor shepherdess fainting on her bent crook, — 
no longer able to stand the strain of a broken heart! she 
passed from this earth. Rich shepherdess! protected in 
that other world by the mighty arm of the Great Shep- 
herd, even as she clasped that motherless little one to 
her breast — but again I digress. 

How did we pass the evenings? Well, we would 
alternate our amusements with "I spy," "Relevio" and 
bean-bags; or we would sit in the cozy little living- 
room and indulge ourselves in the choicest of all games, 
played with cards, "Quotations." These cards — the 
work again of the indefatigable Julia, who with in- 
finite care had selected the lines and verses from the 
authors and poets she most admired. It was like cull- 
ing a bouquet out of acres of flowered plants. We 
grew familiar through this source of entertainment 
with many inspired sentiments and phrases, not realiz- 
ing then that it was always Miss Julia's plan to 
make pleasure profitable. My eyes ever invariably 
light upon one of these quotations of her adoption, like 
an old friend met in Litchfield. I fain would rob the 
real author of his laurels, however, and lay them at 
her feet. On one occasion, my brother who was a 
student at Harvard University made use of the quota- 
tion, "Heaven lies about us in our infancy." Turning 
to me he said with the patronizing air that generally 
goes with the college youth, "I suppose you have no 
idea who wrote those lines." Promptly came my 
answer "Wordsworth, a friend of Miss Julia Vaill's 
of Litchfield, Conn." 

47 



After these games, at which there was keen fencing 
and competition, we did something else, which you, 
my son, have never accomplished. I might truthfully 
go a step farther and say, in which you have signally 
failed, notwithstanding untiring encouragement and 
united coercion on the part of your parents — we went 
to bed early, and what is more to the point we went 
to sleep early. 

Another thing we revelled in at Litchfield, which is 
a rare commodity these busy, eventful days, was plenty 
of Time. It was just one long dreamy day after an- 
other there, and "Time" always meant something pleas- 
ant was about to happen. To be sure we were familiar 
with the picture of "Father Time," with his long white 
beard and equipments of scythe and hour glass, for 
had we not seen it often in the Almanac? He appeared 
to be just a tottering, harmless old man. How could 
we suspect at such an immature age that "Time" was 
a mighty creature, had lived for centuries and would 
live probably for centuries to come and that he had 
huge wings on his back to fly from those who tried 
to kill him. The only thing that appealed familiarly 
to me in the symbolic picture was the hour glass, for 
my Mother used to place a "half-hour glass" on the top 
of the piano when I was due to practice that length of 
time. Thereby frustrating her own endeavors to make 
a musician of her daughter, for I would rather watch 
the sand filtering through the invisible hole between 
the balloon-shaped glass bulbs until the contents of the 
top globe emptied itself into the lower one, only to 
start all over again if turned on the other end. 
"Sharps" and "Flats" were as naught compared with 

48 



this mysterious invention. How did they get the sand 
inside? I would give an occasional shake, but Time 
was regulating the toy in a most systematic manner. 
The sand running down on the even tenor of its way, 
and my desire to hurry things up a bit was never 
accomplished, so I would turn my attention in a desul- 
tory manner to the notes on the sheet of music before 
me, but my Father knew a great deal more about 
"Time" and its value than I did and after a couple of 
days relaxation at the "Manse," I would see him pull 
out his watch and study it with an anxious look, which 
sign I knew as a forerunner of his departure. 

I learned that nothing I could say or do at this crisis 
would change matters. *'Time" ruled the day. Now I 
understand what he meant when he said "Time and 
Tide wait for no man." Father would say more than 
once as he glanced at his watch — "Be sure and allow 
me Time to reach the station, Julia," then some sally 
would follow about "the good mare not being a winged 
steed." Julia would laugh and promise him "plenty 
of Time;" occasionally I had the felicity of driving my 
precious Father alone as far as the village. His face- 
tious remarks on the way hither about "Kitty's prome- 
nade to town, etc., etc.," kept me bubbling with laugh- 
ter, though I confess to a pang of remorse at such jolli- 
fication at her expense, for what did she know about 
Time more than I? And besides I didn't believe that 
she had ever heard of "Dexter" which my Father per- 
sisted in dubbing her when out of ear-shot of her allies 
standing at the gate waving vigorous adieux to the 
parting guest. 

A lapse of flying years takes place at this juncture, 

49 



bringing us sharply back to nineteen hundred and fif- 
teen, and Time has once more struck the parting hour. 
We are about to vanish from the scene. Mrs. Vaill is 
saying she felt that Providence had turned her footsteps 
to the Homestead that morning; she had had no idea 
of making that visit an hour before our meeting. She 
seemed to be moved in that direction by some unseen 
influence; in fact, her plans were distinctly different. 
She was sure some occult power had brought us to- 
gether at the psychic moment. She had not been liv- 
ing in Litchfield for thirty years, and had come thither 
to visit a sister who lived in the village. Her own 
home was at Philadelphia, where her two sons had 
grown to manhood, and were now a part of the great 
business world. Her husband had died but a few 
months previous. 

Leaving together our old haunts, she rode with us 
to Bantam Lake, where we used to go on picnics and 
fish for perch and water-lilies. My dear Father was 
always the inspiration of these occasions — for his visits 
were signals for all especially good times; picnics, stage- 
rides and general jollifications. The children adored 
him. I can see him hiding behind the big trees play- 
ing "hide-and-seek" with the same zest as the rest of 
us. As for Miss Julia and all the Vaill daughters and 
sons, they fairly lionized him. His letters — a few of 
which I will append — were read aloud many times, 
and deeply enjoyed by our little circle. 

We are now on our way to Bantam Lake. Mrs. 
Vaill has offered to act as escort. We never would 
have had the courage to have continued along the 
elusive, winding road without her. An automobile 

50 



requires so much room, and is quite spoiled by the 
wonderful roads that have been constructed for its 
benefit, and always the occupants have in mind that it 
takes much width to turn, and that soft sand is a poor 
bed for a wheel which slips around and around with- 
out making headway. So often we are obliged to look 
askance at a cool inviting little lane where a horse 
would love to travel under the shade of the trees, and 
where we were wont to linger in our enjoyment. An 
automobile is quite out of place, it seems to me, in 
romantic spots, and rather spoils the picture; but, of 
course, without this mode of travel our view would be 
limited indeed, and Bantam Lake but a dream, though 
it soon became a reality. 

With a little encouragement from one familiar with 
the country around about, the lovely sheet of water 
came in view. The car climbed a rather steep ascent, 
and we gazed down upon the sparkling lake through 
the beautiful grove of trees. I cast a furtive glance 
about for familiar signs, and coaxed my memory a bit, 
until everything began to shape itself quite naturally. I 
sat with George on a bench under the trees. He drew 
in a long breath of the fragrance and purity of the at- 
mosphere and exclaimed, "What a beautiful spot! I do 
not wonder at your enthusiasm. So your Father has 
walked here with you — even as you and I. I wonder 
does he know we are here?" But I could not afford to 
have my feelings stirred too deeply, and besides, we had 
a guest. So again we ensconced ourselves in the luxuri- 
ous depths of the automobile, and turned our faces to- 
ward Litchfield village. We drop the little lady of 
Litchfield birth and Litchfield gentleness at the door of 

51 



her sister's home, and journey on our way back into 
the practical every-day atmosphere of 191 5. 

Soon memory will sleep again peacefully, and in the 
whirl and excitement of the age in which we live we 
will drift rapidly on, leaving our son to stand on the 
shore of time, looking backward retrospectively with 
a familiar knowledge of life and a fuller understanding 
of all things, with, I trust, little to regret and much to 
comfort his mind in the thought that his parents found 
in him compensation for their losses and a definite 
answer to their longings and ambitions. 

Good-bye, Litchfield, Good-bye! 



52 



I- ^ 






Photos of tlie Gould family as they looked on 
their visit to Litchfield in 1915 



ADDENDA 

IT was several weeks after finishing the sketch of 
Litchfield, purely from memory, writing the 
thoughts which deluged my brain and forced their 
way to my pen, in the environment of our summer home 
on the shore of the Great South Bay, L. I., before I re- 
turned to our city home in New York. In the meantime 
faint recollections of a packet of old letters, tied with a 
ribbon marked "Julia," entered my mind and beckoned 
to me like outstretched arms. I was eager to reach them 
like one returning to a first love. I confess they had 
long lain unread, were yellow with age, neglected and 
apparently valueless. Once more I revelled in their 
sweetness and purity, in fact, like old wine they seemed 
richer and more mellow with age, Julia's spirit breath- 
ing through them. It was not a childish infatuation 
built on prejudice, after all, but the soul of the woman 
who appealed to the young mind. With my present 
knowledge of the world in its many phases, with the 
capacity and means for enjoyment which has not been 
stinted, with my share of sorrow that has been poignant 
in the loss of those I have loved, every chord of my 
being having thrilled to joy or sadness, I look backward 
to the sum and substance of real happiness personified 
by Julia at that period. All the things I sought and 
strove to attain are as nought compared with her vir- 
tuous and contented mind, and a useful life lived to 

53 



uplift and benefit all those with whom it came into 
contact. 

Judge of these letters. Do they not breathe of lovely 
thoughts and purposes? 

Also I am including a few extracts from letters writ- 
ten to me by my dear Father, loving, facetious and redo- 
lent with originality, bearing on Litchfield, not forget- 
ting the famous clipping from the Winsted Herald, 
which so long has hidden its light between the closed 
leaves of that old scrap-book. 

OLD LETTERS 

Litchfield, February 15, 1869. 
My darling Cora: 

It is Monday morning and everything about the old Manse is 
going on about as usual. Father has lain down as he generally does, 
soon after breakfast. Mother is sewing, Hannah working the 
machine, and Leander — well — I cannot say what he is doing because 
he went home to "Old Virginny" ten days ago to visit his family. 
He wrote us that he met his father and brother on the cars near 
Richmond and could hardly convince them that he was the little 
boy who followed the army away five years ago, for now he is a 
great broad-shouldered man, six feet tall. He intends to come back 
in about six weeks, and in the meantime one of the young men who has 
been reciting Latin to me this winter, is staying with us, to take 
care of the horses and cows. He is only seventeen, but nearly six 
feet tall, and full of good humor enough to suit you or me. 

We go out about two evenings a week to some social gathering and 
Frank is a right nice young beau, and the rest of the time we keep 
busy enough, he with his studies, and I with reading, writing, sewing 
and domestic duties. The winter is flying away — I really wish it were 
just begun, there are so many books to be read, that the summer gives 
no time for. To-day we are having an ice-storm. The trees and 
shrubs are heavily loaded and bending gracefully with the crystal 
burden. 

Old Minerva is beautiful as ever and often comes to be petted. 
Young Deadle is lying on her back behind the Morning Glory stove 
with her heels in the air. She was held and petted so much in the 
summer that now she is the condensed quintessence of laziness, she 

54 



lies down to wash herself! Our last social gathering was held at Mr. 
Pettibones, at the upper end of Worth St. (you remember, the gen- 
tleman who has the school to which all my S. S. girls go) and there 
were about two hundred present. They had some fine tableaux. 
Ella Adams and Eva Colvocoresses were in a lovely one, a Gipsy 
scene, and I had to act a Pantomime with Mr. Woodruff, our S. S. 
Superintendent, but it would take two sheets of writing to describe 
all we did, so I will leave it to tell you. 

How often, my sweet Cora, I think of you, and wish to put my 
arms around you! Do you still go so far to school, and go without 
your dinner? Whenever you come into my mind now, you are pale 
and changed, as I saw you in Brooklyn, and it distresses me. If you 
are doing better, do let me know, it would be a great relief. How 
are your Father and Mother, and j'our brothers? Please tell your 
Father the "N. Y. Weekly" comes regularly. Father sends his 
thanks for it, but wishes me to say he hopes you did not think he 
asked for it in that way. He only suggested you should send one 
paper to let him know his letter had been received. 

His neuralgia gets worse instead of better, I am sorry to say, and 
has about lost the use of one eye. The doctors give him no encourage- 
ment as to recovery. He has no croquet to beguile the weary hours, 
and for his sake I wish summer were here again. I hear frequently 
from my little folk at Ivy Tower, and on the 27th of this month I 
shall look for letters from all of them as usual and hope to hear 
from all the dear children who love me, on that day, for my birth- 
day comes on Sunday this year, the 28th, and I always love to have 
it come because it brings me such a sweet packet of love-letters. I 
have spent a delightful winter, as busy as a bee in clover-time and so 
happy, too, that I hardly know what to make of it, but I suppose 
the secret of being happy is to have a-plenty to do for others and 
not to have much time to think of one's self. Now, my darling, may 
I not have a birthday letter from you on the 27th? Father thinks 
it would do him good to get a letter from you. He and my Mother 
send a great deal of love and so does Hannah, Bill (war horse) and 
Kitty (gentle mare) would if they knew of my writing. Good-bye. 
Your loving friend, 

J. M. V. 

Home, June loth, 1869. 
My own dear Cora: 

When I first came home Julia gave me the sweet little letter she 
received from you, on her birthday, to read, and I immediately said 
"I am going to write to Cora this very day." But that day passed 
as many others have since, with so much to be done in each one, 
that letter writing seemed the last thing to undertake. I have been 

55 



home just five weeks. The weather is still very cool, but the country 
never looked more lovely. We have played croquet but little yet, 
as there were so many things to do in-doors, but now we shall have 
more leisure and mean to practice up before you chicks come. 

Charley and Kitty are coming a week from Friday with Mr. 
Barton. I wish you were coming then too. My sister Abby heard 
at Mr. Redfields that your Mother was quite sick. I am very sorry 
to hear it and hope she is not going to be troubled with those attacks 
as she was last summer. Father has been trouting all day and I 
presume had very good success, although I have not seen the con- 
tents of his basket. His health is some better I think, except his 
eye, which is quite painful. We have two lovely white kittens, they 
are about six weeks old, and begin to be very cunning; one of them 
has dark eyes and the other the lightest and brightest blue. 

Hannah often speaks of you, and just now when I asked her what 
I should say for her, she responded, "give her my love, and I want 
to see her very much." Mrs. Redfield wrote that Jennie would 
not be here before the I2th of July, but you shall room with either 
my sister or myself, and we will take care that you do not get lone- 
some. If you have any little girl friend, who would like to come 
with you, and whom you would like to have here, you could bring 
her along, as there will be plenty of room. Of course, I cannot 
expect such a sweet letter as the one you sent my sister, but if you 
can find time to scratch ofF something for me, I should be delighted 
to receive it. Remember us all to your Father and Mother. All 
send love to you, my dear, and hope to see you soon. 

With much love, 

Your sincere friend, 

Mary W. Vaill. 



Litchfield, July 24, '69. 
My darling Cora: 

I have been looking for a letter from you but concluded you are 
so happy at home again with your brothers and all around you that 
you forget how we want to hear from you. I expected to feel lonely 
after you left but there have been so many coming and going that 
it has seemed quite lively. The day you went, three young gentle- 
men drove up from Washington, Conn., and spent the day. They 
were fine croquet players and made the balls spin around as they 
haven't before this year. 

Two mornings I amused myself raspberrying, found six quarts of 
the nicest large ones I ever saw without going out of sight from 
the house! Then I made them into jam and it is delicious. I^ast 
Thursday, Robert Holly came from Brooklyn. He is a real fine 
young man and I think we shall like him very much. He spends 

56 



most of the time out of doors with the children but gets a Latin 
lesson daily which I hear at ten a. m. You know I was rather 
dreading to teach in Summer but now I'm sure I shall enjoy it. 

Willie Beebe has just passed a fine examination at Yale and is 
coming to visit us on Monday. I have invited a little party for him 
in the evening. Jenny is coming on Tuesday, also my Sister Abby 
with little Robbie, and on Wednesday another Sister will come with 
Minnie and Fanny Lyman! How happy we shall all be then! 

August I. Here I am again, my dearie, and all that I expected 
would happen has come to pass with a good deal beside. You might 
know I couldn't write with so many little arms hugging me at every 
turn. M. and F. will visit us for two weeks, perhaps longer, and 
I have planned an excursion to the pine woods, one to the Lake 
and another a huckleberry picnic. Little Fanny, not yet nine (will 
be next Sat.), is the best croquet plaj'er on the ground, and Robbie 
only three and a half, is one of the most winning, dear little fellows 
I ever saw. He is everybody's pet and yet not spoiled. You would 
devour him as I do. It is impossible to tell on paper how sweet 
he is. I have been to church to-day and now Jenny and Charley 
sit near me in the bay window, reading "Young Folks" and Robert 
Holly, Minnie and Frank are writing letters to their friends at 
home. After supper we shall all go to walk up Sunset Hill. You 
and Mr. Barton will not be here, what a pity! But Mr. B. is com- 
ing soon to spend two weeks and will miss you I know. Several 
times every day I hear some of the people say "I wish Cora was 
here," and I echo the wish in my own heart every hour. I should love 
dearly to hear from you, and better still, to see you. 

Good-night and good-bye, with kisses on the top from your loving 

J. M. Vaill. 



Litchfield, February 14, 1870. 
My darling Cora: 

You may have any number of Valentines but none of them will 
contain so much love as mine for I am "full up" as the children 
say. Do not think I am the less loving because of my long silence. 
Many hours I have set apart for jou when some hungry care or 
duty comes along and eats them up. Frank and I talk of you very 
often and wish you could be with us to enjoy the sleigh-rides and 
cozy winter evenings. The evenings at home have been the best, 
however, for we have had few interruptions and have accomplished 
a deal of good reading of Histories, Travels, Science, etc. F. thinks 
it the best winter he ever had and I say "ditto." He is full of life 
and fun as ever and that keeps me lively. 

My dear Father has not suffered so much as last winter, still he 

57 



is not well and keeps on taking medicines. I am in hopes he will 
feel much better w^hen Spring fairly warms the air. My Mother 
has been very well, and 1 have been pretty well, although not so 
strong as I would like. Should hardly dare to try muscles with 
you now. 

You heard about Jack's and Hannah's wedding? They are house- 
keeping just this side of Town and come to see us occasionally. Our 
family is so small now, only four, we are doing without a girl and 
like it wonderfully, yet it does keep Mother and me very busy nearly 
all the morning, and then after my teaching F. in the p. m. I feel 
too weary for anything in the evenings except reading. 

We had a terrible snow storm last Tuesday, which left the roads 
bare, except in spots where it is badly drifted so now there is no 
more travelling either with wheels or runners. It is the first really 
severe storm we have had. 

We are invited to a party at Frank's father's tonight and I shall 
have to walk across the fields with Frank, but that we don't mind 
as the drifts are hard and do not break through. The party is made 
for his older sister, who has come home from New Haven to spend 
a week. 

One day not long ago it was so warm and pleasant, we played 
a game of croquet and I was beaten! If you had been on my side 
it would have resulted differently, but Frank shows no mercy. He 
has just received a Valentine about "The First Cigar." I do hope 
he will never smoke. 

My boy Georgie (Lyman) has passed a fine examination at 
Cornell University and is doing well there. I hear from him very 
often. Harry feels lonely enough without his brother, says he feels 
sometimes as though he could not live another minute without seeing 
him. But he w^ill enter there next year and then they can be together 
again. 

I wish you could see the plants in the dining-room bay window. 
It is all aglow with scarlet salvia and other blossoms. 

On Christmas, Father had some musicians sent him, the "Indus- 
trious Fiddlers," and they keep it up, night and day. I often 
hear him singing to the music or laughing at their droll sobriety. 

It seems a great while since I have seen you. I was greatly disap- 
pointed at not finding you in Brooklyn in October. If it had not 
been for my Sister's wedding coming so soon, I should have stayed to 
find you, for I have been looking forward to it with such desire that 
I was not at all reconciled. That was a dear, sweet letter you 
sent me so long ago and although I have not answered, to deserve 
another, I hope you will be a forgiving little Christian and write 
me for my birthday, which comes on the 28th of this month. Can 
you have the heart to refuse? I think I feel you giving me a 

58 



sound hugging for answer. Oh! I long for one of your thorough 
hugs. 

My Brother Joe spent last Sabbath here with his wife and he is 
at home again today. He sends love to Cora. We also have 
visiting us my Aunt, Mrs. Brinsmade, a sweet old lady. Father 
and Mother send love to you and I presume Frank would if he dared. 
Please give my regards to your dear Parents. Also to your brothers. 
I haven't heard a word from Jennie since she left. My love to her 
and Lottie. 

With heaps of kisses, 

I am your ever loving 

Frank says he dares. J. M. Vaill. 

T.^ J T ^ Litchfield, April i8, 1870. 

My darhng Cora: 

It seems absurd for me to begin a letter to you because I am "so 
full up," as Kitty says, that I shall be sure to get my sentences all 
in a heap ; I mean, there is so much to tell you. 

Oh! what wouldn't I give to have you here to go in the woods 
with us for Arbutus. Mr. Frank has agreed to bring his sisters 
over on Thursday and we are all going to the top of Brush Hill 
Woods, where the beds of Trailing Arbutus grow so thick, it is 
enough to drive one wild with delight. Last Spring after going there 
I dreamed every night of the most heavenly clusters of flowers that 
ever mortal saw. I always want my friends around me when 
gathering such flowers. The pleasure is too keen to be enjojed alone. 
I should like to see your face once, just as you came upon a hidden 
mossy nook, all aglow with the fragrant pink and white beauties. 

Minerva has five of the dearest babies. We are going to keep 
them all so that if j^ou and your brothers should come up, you could 
each have one to harness. They are beginning to play like witches. 
This morning the Mother cat concluded she would bring the family 
into the house and so she came with them in her mouth, one at a 
time, and laid them down by the fire. Mary is holding one and I 
another. 

My Brother Joe and his wife were with us yesterday. They sent 
love to you and my brother said he hoped that you would come up 
and that I might tell you he should be delighted to beat you 
soundly at a game of croquet. Mr. Frank comes over to play pretty 
often. 

I was very glad to get your nice birthday letter and have wished 
to answer long ago. Haven't even answered Harriet yet, which came 
the same day, but have had many others to write which couldn't be 
put off. Mary seems just the same as before she was married. 
Wasn't it good in her to come up just to see to my dressmaking? 

59 



Do you know that dear old Kitty is dead? She got hurt in the 
stable three weeks ago and we found her dead in the morning. She 
is buried in the Pond Lot. My Brother is going to send us a new 
gentle one when Charley and Kitty come on the first of May. This 
must be a short letter for I have no more time. Write me when you 
feel like it. Please give my regards to all your family and remember 
me, 

Your dearly loving friend, 

J. M. Vaill. 

Father is very much better ; will be playing croquet soon. 



Litchfield, Conn., Feby. 12, 1871. 
My dear Cora: 

A real old fashioned north east snow storm is raging today and 
piling its drifts about the old manse as if it meant to lock us in this 
time sure enough. I have been reading a sermon to Mother and 
Aunt Everest, but now "church is out" and we have eaten our 
lunch, old Minnie purring and waving her tail about the room to 
keep her spirits up until her turn came. The mercury stands 16° 
below freezing, but it is almost summer heat in the dining room and 
the bay window is a pleasant greenery to look upon, geraniums, 
oleander, salvia and calla in blossom and some little shrubs of 
mignonette, that make the air all fragrance. You see I have time to 
take care of my plants in the winter. The day your letter came 
to Father I was wishing I had written to tell you of his approach- 
ing birthday, knowing how much he thought of little friends' 
letters. He was much gratified with yours, also with the poem for 
your birthday. He said it was beautiful and true of Cora. I think 
it one of the truest and sweetest things I ever read. It is a legacy, 
Cora, which you may well treasure as long as you live. We miss 
Father more and more, and yet I cannot realize that he is gone 
where I shall see him no more in this life. How he loved the 
children! His memory will be fresh so long as they live, I am 
sure. If I could only remember how he used to be more and 
forget these last months of intense suffering, I think this pain in my 
head would go away. It comes on whenever I try to write. I 
have been wishing to write to you all Winter but have had many 
letters to answer from friends of Father's whom I have never 
seen. They are such good, kind letters I should love to answer 
them if it did not hurt me so. My Sister Abby has been spending 
a week with us, but her visit was far too short. The Lymans 
want me to spend March with them in Tenafly and Mother says 
I need the change and must go, so I suppose I shall, but do not see 
how they can spare me either. If I go, I shall stop in Brooklyn a 

60 



few days and shall hope to see you. Why! I must see you! The 
dear little baby! Her picture is in the corner of my glass and I 
often say, "Poor little Lamb," or "Ah, Toady! Doodle do?" The 
day she left I asked her if she was going away to leave me and 
shaking her little head she said, "No, never going to leave Auntie 
Julia, no, never!" I only hope the little waif has strayed back 
to heaven. I had a most charming visit at Cornell University with 
Georgie and Harry in October, but I must tell you all about that 
some other time. The little Plumbs go to school and some of them 
are in to see us almost every day. It was fine sleighing all last 
week and yesterday I drove down to see Miss Nettie. Sister 
Nealie is soon coming from Winsted with young Robin to spend a 
month. The little fellow is full of life and fun and the little 
mother is all devotion to him. They make a very sweet picture for 
the chimney corner. 

How the storm drives! But we can snap our fingers at it so 
long as the ruddy "Morning Glory" coal stove sends its glow from 
its twelve bright windows. I wish you could see how cheerful it 
looks. 

Please give my love to all the family, keeping a good share for 
yourself. 

From your friend, 

J. M. Vaill. 



Litchfield, Conn., Dec. 22, 1872. 
My dear Cora: 

For weeks I have been saying that I would write to you and 
yesterday something occurred to precipitate the determination. I 
took Mother and Baby B. out sleighing and calling at a friend's 
in Bantam was asked if I knew Cora Smith? 

It seems the enclosed letter went from Dublin to Washington 
City, then to Litchfield ; thence to a Mr. F. L. Smith in Bantam, 
and by good fortune fell into my hands. It would have done you 
more good if received when you were homesick for letters in a 
strange land, but I'm sure you will be glad to get it even at this 
late day. I hope all the other letters you missed have found you 
before this time. 

The sun shines in very brightly through the plants, but the air 
must be nipping without, for there is a keen wind and the mercury 
stands at zero. Last evening I took a sleigh ride, mercury standing 
only 6° above zero, but the air was so perfectly still we were not 
at all cold. 

Baby Theo has been so full of fun and frolic all the morning I 
have not done much but play with him and now he is in his crib 
for a nap, but if you could hear the peals of laughter, you would 

61 



think sleep must be a good way off. Never was such a merry little 
elf. He is now nearly twenty months old, and is good company. 
A perfect chatterbox! In the night he tells me all he knows about 
"Papa — gone — cars — chu! chu! Abby — cars — Bookin — Billy — corn 
— cow — calf — dog — bow wow! Antel Duah!" and so it keeps up 
till I say, "Oh, Baby, do stop talking and let Aunty go to sleep; 
Aunty feels bad!" He jumps up and saj^s, "Baby kiss Antel Duah," 
which he thinks will cure all things, then lies down and begins his 
chatter again. Old Minnie has two pretty kittens, great playmates 
for Baby. He tries to sit on them, but by the time he is seated, 
they are gone from under. He shows them his playthings and if 
they mew he kisses them. 

The "N. Y. Weekly" continues to come to our box, directed 
to George. I ought to have spoken of it long ago, but being 
farmer, housekeeper, baby-tender, etc., I neglect things which I 
would like to do. Please notify your Father that it may be dis- 
continued. I am trying my best to get time to read a work of 
L. M. Child's in three large volumes, "The Progress of Religious 
Ideas," hut make it out only in bits. Your Father would enjoy it 
and so I think would you. 

Our good Prussian remains with us another year (and I hope al- 
ways). I am teaching him English in the evenings and he teaches 
me German. George and Harry Lyman are still at Cornell and 
write me German and French letters. A life of study! Oh, what 
a delight! but there are many other things to do, and a life of study 
would be vain unless the wisdom gained were used to make the 
world better and happier. You must often be reminded in a gay 
city of the vv^ords, "Is not the life more than meat, and the body than 
raiment." 

It is a sad pity so little is thought of mental suicides by those 
who commit them daily. I wish I could see you, Cora. Cannot 
you come up and spend the Sabbath some time with Mr. Barton? 
Our family is small in the winter, only Mother, Baby, myself, 
John and Ellen, a very nice Yankee girl. We have occasional visits 
from friends and relatives. My mother's health is much better than 
during the Summer and Autumn. Hoping your Father, Mother 
and 



Joy Tower, Tenafly, N. J., Oct. 2, 1873. 
My dear Cora: 

Can you not come up to Litchfield with us on Saturday? Mr. 
Barton will take Baby and me up there on the 3:15 train, Shepang 
Road, and we reach home at 9. Then he returns on the early morn- 
ing train, bringing a lady who has been visiting Abby. You spoke 

62 



of going up some Saturday and this will be far the best one, because 
it will soon be dreary for you in the country and there is no 
telling when Mr. Barton will go again, then besides you will 
get acquainted with Baby on the way. I should rather have Ormy 
and George come at some other time. Charley, Kitty and Rob 
will probably be at the cars to see us off. You will not need to write 
me, but we shall look out for you early at 42d depot. Do! do come! 
I was sorry you couldn't come around Tuesday eve; we had a fine 
time. With love, 

Yours, 

Julia Vaill. 



Litchfield, Dec. 2, '74. 
My dear Cora: 

Several weeks ago my sister Abby mentioned seeing you and said 
you did not receive my reply to your letter written from London. 
I am sorry because it was a long one and I wanted very much to 
hear from you again. I sent it to N. Y. for your Father to 
forward. 

How are you all now? Let me know what you are doing and 
thinking. Do you keep on with your painting, and how are your 
dear Father and Mother and the boys? There's a volley of questions 
for you! I suppose my sister told you what a house full of children 
we had. All my Lymans here at once except two. Seven of them! 
They are all recovered from their chills and fever speedily and the 
last one left with Sister Lizzie last Tuesday. 

Our family is reduced now to its minimum. No one but Mother, 
Baby Theodore (now a great boy, more than three and a half 
years old), myself and Ellen, the girl who has lived with us more 
than two years, and the man, Michael. 

We had several lovely little girls here during the summer that 
I became very much attached to. I know you would love them, and 
my boy, Harry Lyman, now a young man, was here also more than 
three months. We had capital times together, walking and taking 
drives by moonlight and read aloud Oarton's "Life of Jefferson," 
and some other things. He wanted to spend the winter here and 
go on with his studies, but it wasn't best. He is a lovely character 
and we miss him very much. I have lately made a visit at Winsted, 
taking Theo. to see his little cousins. I spent most of my time at 
Brother Joe's, who has but one child, Robin, nearly a year older 
than Theo. They made music enough together. Sister Nealie is 
just as sweet as ever. To think you have never seen Mary's child 
yet! I think you would love him, because I love him so much; still, 
he is full of stuff and has some naughty ways, is wayward and quick, 

63 



but very affectionate. It would make you laugh to hear him talk, 
so quaint, and he remembers everything. I want to invite some 
friends during the holidays, but have promised Ellen the week to 
go home, so must content myself alone this time. 

Do write me all about yourself, my darling, and excuse this 
hasty apology for a letter. With kind remembrance from Mother 
and myself to you all, and my old love for your dear self, I am, 

Yours, 

Julia. 



Litchfield, Conn., March 28, 1875. 
My Always Dear Cora: 

Your letter was received on the ist Jany. Can it be so long ago? 
One would think our life must be dull, shut in here with piles of 
drifted snow and plenty of time for letter-writing, but a housekeeper 
that has a farm to look after and a little boy bobbing around me in 
perpetual motion, finds life full enough of action. On the 7th of 
Feby. my brother Joseph came from Winsted to take me up to see 
my brother Theodore, who was very sick with pneumonia. He 
could not speak to me and died in a few hours. He left a young 
wife and a little girl and boy, besides a host of friends and relatives 
who loved him most tenderly. All of our family were gathered 
there on the loth to take a last look at our loved one till we meet 
him again, glorified. There are few funerals like his. After the 
services at the church, and the great concourse of townspeople and 
friends and army comrades had departed, the parents of my brother's 
wife insisted that we should all return to their house, for the young 
wife felt that her home was now too desolate for her and the little 
ones, even for an hour, and so we were all together and our sorrow 
seemed almost like joy as one and another spoke of the lovely traits 
of character our brother had. In the evening they were singing 
the sacred pieces he loved, and Alice, whose place had always been 
at the piano, listened for awhile, then it seemed as though she could 
not keep away, and taking her seat among them, played his music 
while they sung, and it seemed as though he tnust be with us in the 
spirit. He was always a most loving and tender brother and his 
wife said, "He was the best man that ever lived." 

Our little Theo was with me and the organ music was so sad 
and solemn, it set him to sobbing. Even his Papa could not com- 
fort him by promising to stay with him till the next day. He asked 
me, "Is Uncle Theodore seeing my Mama now?" Dear little fellow. 
He is sick with some double teeth that have been trying to cut 
for several weeks and has spells of feeling pretty bad and now says, 

64 




Theodore F. \aill 



"I don't want you to write at all. Aunty, I want you to read to 
me." 

Tuesday. My Dearie ; what a sweet day. Theo and I have been 
out all the morning — sunning. The earth is bare in patches and the 
happy flies are buzzing out of the dry grass. The drifts are still 
two and three feet deep all about and no travelling on account of 
the bare spots, but this blessed sunshine will soon set the roads 
in order. You have had a busy winter with your French, music 
and your beloved Art, but there have been quiet times when your 
mind has lived over again some of the childhood hours at the old 
Farm, when we had the stories on the sofa, or in your room in the 
dark, and the image of a plump little dot chimes in with: "Ah 
Tody! doodle-doof" 

We have had some dear, sweet little girls here since then, and 
some that I dearly love (our Fanny Smith of New York, with 
whom I am corresponding all the time, and I have lately received 
a fine picture of her), but none of them fill the place of Cora, 
That always remains "Sacred to the memory." I shall hope to 
hear from you again and how you all are. I trust your dear Father's 
trip to Cal. was a benefit to him. If you should carry out your 
plan of returning to Europe this spring, I should be pleased to 
hear from you and hope my letters will have a surer transit another 
time. 

My Brother Joseph and family live in Winsted and he is now 
editor of the Winsted Herald in place of his brother, who died. 
I will send you a paper with notices of the press concerning Brother 
Theo. if I can get one. There were several hundred extra but they 
may be all gone. 

Sister Abby is still in N. Y., but will be with us in a few weeks, 
I trust. George and Orm must have grown a good deal since I 
saw them. Theo says he remembered them, but that is rather 
doubtful. 

I wish you could see my bay-window full of blossoms. It has 
been very bright all Winter. Our neighbor, Mr. Plumb, has started 
a greenhouse from which he has cut flowers during the winter. 
My Mother is very well and active for one of her age. She sends 
her love. I am letter-writing quite unsatisfactorily when I see a 
friend so seldom and really knows so very little about her as about 
you, still, / am quite sure you will keep this little oasis green in 
your memory for a long while. I should love to fold you in my 
arms and talk with you for hours, but perhaps that time will never 
come. It seems farther of? than ever now. I comfort myself by 
thinking, "In Heaven there will be time for everything we love 
to do." "Six days shalt thou labor!" is the strict command and we 
must follow it each in our small way as best we can, in order to 

65 



have the pattern complete; there is always something to do for 
somebody, somebody's child to love and lift up. But my dear 
little Lamb is calling for me, so vi^ith a kind remembrance for all the 
family and the same old love for yourself, I am, 

Yours, 

J. M. Vaill. 

My little Boy says, "I w^ant you to make a box for me to put 
a kiss in for Cora," so here it is: 



Litchfield, May 12, 1875. 
My dear Cora: 

Your letter w^as received on Saturday and gave me much pleasure. 
Sister Abby has been all through the Brush Hill woods today in 
quest of the "May Flower," but not finding it as nice as usual, we 
afterwards went to the Pine woods where we found lovely mosses, 
pigeon berry vine and Arbutus buds. It brought to mind the time 
of our little picnic. The woods were full of thoughts of you, my 
darling. We have been getting the flowers ready to send to several 
friends and I am going to get up at 4 o'clock in the morning and 
take them to the early train, hoping they will be received the same 
day. The moss will keep green indefinitely if kept sprinkled. I 
send buds mostly as they will come out if put in water that is 
not too cold and hope you will be able to reproduce some of the 
sprays and pigeon vine. Little Theo. heard some one mention 
Paris today and said, "Why, that's where Cora's Mamma has gone, 
with George and Ormy." (He heard me read it in the letter.) 
It is late and I am weary, so you will, I know, excuse my brief 
note. 

With my kind remembrance to your dear Father and to the 
others when you write them, I am as ever. 
Your loving friend, 

Julia. 

I am very sorry the flowers are not so fine as I hoped to get. 
The winter has been severe for them. Trusting, however, they will 
arrive in good condition and give you real old-fashioned pleasure, I 
send them and a heart full of love besides — real old-fashioned love. 

66 



Litchfield, June 6, '75. 
My dear Cora: 

Your letter was received on the 4th, together with the exquisite 
painting of Arbutus. I cannot tell you how delighted I am with 
it. Theo. said, "Why! that's the same Arbutus you sent to Cora — 
and the Pigeon-berries too!" ("Pigeon" was the pet name by which 
his dear Mama called him during those few weeks.) 

The painting stands before me and I love to dwell upon the 
shading of each blossom, leaf and stem. The buds, too, are perfect. 
I love it for itself and for the precious sweet words it will say 
to me every time I look upon it, and for the love I bear the Artist — 
for Cora. You are a true Artist, but I will reserve some of the 
fine things I see in your future, to talk of when you come. I have 
been out in the fields and only wish you could have been with me. 
The wild Azalias are ravishing! The delicate pink, with their 
light green leaves, and the fragrance! Then the graceful Solomon's 
Seal ; Adder's Tongue, with mottled leaves ; Star-flower, and fragrant 
white violet — oh ! you should be in the country in the Spring-time 
and make acquaintance with its flora. 

Charley, Kitty, their Mama and Robby Ormiston come up on the 
19th inst. Can't you come with them? My Brother Theodore's 
wife and two little ones will probably be here the week after the 
others come and I should love to have you see them. The young- 
est, not yet two years old, is very cunning and sweet. 

You speak of coaxing your Father away for awhile. I hope you 
will coax him up here. We should be very happy to see him. 

Please let me know if you can come on the 19th and I will 
tell Charley, that he may be on the look-out for you. They will 
come on the Norwalk Express, 3:15 p. m., arrive here at 8:15. 

You will receive a warm welcome from all at the old farm. 
With thanks for the painting, and the same old heart full of love 
as ever, I am. 

Yours sincerely, 

Julia M. Vaill. 

Best regards to your Father and to the family when you write. 
My Mother and Sister Abby also wish to be remembered. 



The Old Farm, August 18, 1875- 
My dear Cora Girl: 

Your very welcome letter was received today. I am sorry you 
did not get your dress the day I sent it. I sent it before noon on 
Sat., but wondered at your wish to have it sent to the Weekly office, 
as I suppose it would not be open in the evening, and that if you 

67 



were at the St. James you would get it the same evening if directed 
there. However, I didn't like to go beyond instructions. 

It was too bad I didn't send the right key first. I thought it 
was a queer one, but could not think of anything it could be but 
that. Some one else looked in the little drawer on Saturday and 
found the true one. You didn't say whether you wanted the sack 
to the brown dress and then I knew you suffer in it; besides I 
hadn't a piece of wrapping paper large enough to hold it and the 
other things. Dr. Ormiston and George Lyman came on Sat. 
The Doctor left us yesterday, much to our regret. George will 
remain several days longer, I hope. We look for Sister Em, Charley, 
Kitty and Albert Richards on Saturday. Mother started for Willi- 
mantic on Monday. It makes a large hole in the family to have 
her gone. We have had plenty of rain and the streams are all over- 
flowed. The sun shines delightful now, and everybody is wishing 
Cora back again. I hope you will have a charming time at Bellport, 
and be as happy as you deserve to be, which is a pretty good wish. 
The apples are ripe (the harvest apps) and going off fast, as is 
the harvest moon. The children have great times with Charades, 
Teddy has taken to acting — tonight I mean to act hysterics, and 
some other funny things and we are going to have "Dumb Crambo." 
Your pony is doing nicely; I love her. Let me know when to meet 
you. I long to see you, but wouldn't say a word to bring you if you 
can be happier elsewhere. The young folks are out wading in the 
puddles as you use to. Teddy will be a pretty sight, but he's happy! 
Excuse haste and brevity — Dwight is just going in to carry and 
bring the mail. Remember me to your Father. With a heart full 
of love, I am, Yours, 

Julia. 



The Old Farm, Dec. 5, 1875. 
My dearie "Cora Girl": 

I have been thinking I would write you for some time past, but 
had forgotten your number. Just now came across one of your letters 
containing it. We have all been to church today and heard an 
excellent sermon from our new minister, Mr. McLane. It was 
from ist Kings, 19:12, "And after the fire, a still small voice." 
He thought Elijah was a good man, but in his zeal sometimes did 
wrong as when he slew the 450 prophets of Baal without giving 
them a moment for repentance. He thought the Lord intended to 
teach Elijah a lesson of quiet doing by the "still small voice." He 
said we must have zeal either in business or religion in order to ac- 
complish anything, it was not noise that affected most good but that 
the patient effort of earnest, thinking people, who live rightly and 

68 



seek by every means to lift up and benefit mankind, are the ones who 

carry out the Christian idea of doing good. He said the spirit of 
persecution could not please God nor be God-like, and gave some 
instances in which some of our great Protestant leaders had perse- 
cuted even to death those who were equally sincere, but differed 
from them in matters of faith. Let us be thankful that those days 
of darkness are passing away. 

Sat. p. m., Dec. ii. Theo talked to me so constantly when I 
was writing before, my discourse had to be postponed and I dare 
say you think it was quite long enough. If too long, I beg pardon. 

Last week we had our "porkers" killed, so nearly all this past 
week has been occupied in the making of head-cheese, souse, mincing 
for sausages, seasoning, pickling hams, salting down, etc., etc. If 
you should ever be a housekeeper in the country, you would find 
it necessary to look after all such things in order to have it properly 
done. It's fine, too, the best part of housekeeping, because you feel 
as though you were really accomplishing something that has not to 
be done over again next week or next month. The pork and lard 
put up last year are not gone yet and are just as good and sweet 
as at first, so you see it pays to know how. 

Teddy is out coasting with the Plummies all day, as Saturday 
is their holiday. It is great fun for him as he rides down hill with 
them and then they draw him up. Pretty fair sleighing here for 
several days past. Oh! my darling, I draw a long breath when 
I think how much I want to see you and talk with you. 

Dec. 12. Just at this point we had a call from the minister, 
Mr. MacLane. I asked if he didn't find the climate pretty severe, 
but he said no, although he had spent the past two years in Southern 
Europe, and seen no snow except when he climbed the Alps. (His 
wife died in Paris last year and he has a little girl a year younger 
than Teddy.) It is a lovely day and Mother has taken Theo. to 
church with Dwight to drive. Theo. goes regularly now to the S. 
School Infant Class. He is learning to read. Has learned from 
Ellen the deaf and dumb alphabet and is continually spelling words 
on his fingers. He likes best to spell the words in his English and 
French book because that has pictures to help him out, and he 
spends hours studying the beautiful pictures in the book, "Little 
Folks," which you brought him. 

I haven't seen you since I had my last visit in Brooklyn. I spent 
three nights with "Little Mac" and we did have a lovely time. 
There are a good many pleasant ladies in the house. A very de- 
sirable place to board I should think. How are you all at 32? 
Do you go out much, and how do you pass your evenings? Are 
the gentlemen as irresistibly funny as ever at the table? Tell me 
all about your artistic labors. I go out but little, finding plenty 

69 



to keep me busy and spending the evening mostly in reading aloud. 
Do not intend to write much in the evenings. We had a company 
of young folks here to spend the evening a few nights ago and 
among other entertainments we tried the spelling game that Kitty 
and Fanny amused themselves with in the summer. We took the 
word Subordinate to see which could make most words from it 
in a given time. It was great fun. Some of them did very well, 
but I came out nearly a hundred counts ahead of any. 

If you want an interesting book to read get "Lorna Doone," by 
Blackmore. We were reading it aloud evenings at Demarest. I 
have not finished it but am going to get it. Harry says they have 
and enjoyed it immensely. I have frequent long letters from him. 
I wrote to Fanny last week. Do you often see them? Please tell 
my big brother a note from his pen would give much pleasure to 
the little woman who lives under the Hill. The old farm is a 
good place to stay at if one has a contented mind, which is my state 
at present, but without content no place is good. I should love to 
hear from your inner-self, little one. I hope never to lose you out 
of my heart. Indeed that would hardly be possible with me, for 
never yet have I ceased to love anyone who was once held dear. 

When I had Theo. sit for a picture I sat too, and it has just 
popped into my head to send you one. I didn't go prepared prop- 
erly and didn't intend to have the dress taken so much as it is. 
The picture flatters, of course, or else I wouldn't have it. Theo's 
haven't come yet. I hear from Sister Abby that she is well and 
very busy. You remember Mrs. Eva Colvocoresses Jones, upon 
whom we called, the young Greek lady. She died last month leav- 
ing a daughter a month old. It was a great shock to all of us and 
a terrible blow to her husband. Few things seem sadder than for 
a Mother to leave so young a child. 

Theo. has returned from church and is telling me of all the little 
girls he saw. He is full of life and fun all the time. He sends 
a kiss to Cora. Mother sends love. Now I must write to Sister 
Nealie. Tell me all about yourself and your dearest interests if 
you feel like it. 

Yours as ever, 

Julia. 



The Old Farm, Litchfield, January 7, 1876. 
My dear Cora: 

The other day our neighbor, Mr. Plumb, found the lovely book 
you sent to Teddy, still lying in the Express Office as we had not 
sent there since Christmas. He is greatly delighted with it and 
"chatters" more than ever about the pictures he finds in it and 

70 




Julia M. Vaill 
And three little maids whom she loved 




"eodore Vaiij 



everything else. He is learning to spell quite fast and it would 
astonish you to hear him play the Rhyming game. He took it up 
himself ; finds his words and keeps one in his mind for me to match. 
The other morning he told me, before light, to give him a word to 
rhyme with 'plot.' I went all through the alphabet, giving the 
definitions just as the grown-up children do. "Is it a noun?" 
"Yes," finally — "Is it what we make in the end of thread when 
we sew?" "Yes, it is a knot!" he said. 

He has enough Christmas presents for several little boys. Among 
them a huge Noah's Ark, with nearly 300 animals in pairs from 
Elephants to the Kangaroo, from the Rhinoceros to the Grass- 
hopper. They are all set up in order on a table devoted to their 
use. Then he had from his Papa a number of nice presents, besides 
a fine large sled, and some books. He can slide down the hill 
alone, too! Isn't that coming on well for 42-35? He was so 
pleased with the stocking St, Nicholas filled for him that he wants 
me to write a letter and thank him and the first time we "burn 
out" a chimney send it up in the flame. You will think my mind 
is all taken up with the wonderful nephew, and it wouldn't be 
far from true. He is pretty much all we have in Winter to keep 
us sweet and bright. Just now he is lying on his back poring 
over a newspaper. 

Sabbath evening. My Darling. I left off to go and take a 
walk with my little man, then in the evening to Library meeting 
and so the days go by. We have all been to church and S. S. 
Heard a most excellent discourse from the words "Pray without 
ceasing," from our Mr. McLane. It did me good and I needed 
it. The subject is one that has been in my mind much of late 
and my thoughts have gone back many times to the revered ancestors, 
who for three generations believed in, and prayed to God, from 
under this old roof-tree and although I am not a "Spiritualist" in 
the common acceptation, I feel confident that the spirits of our 
departed loved ones are often near us and do help us. It seems 
as though they guarded us from danger, at all events I love to 
think so. 

Did you get a letter from me the middle of December? I re- 
ceived a precious note from Whittier the other day in which he 
says — "If I can compile another volume (of Child Life) it will 
be partly for the sake of thy little man and thy request." Ah! the 
Quaker Poet give me! It doesn't take whole volumes for him to 
express a thought. He always strikes when the iron is hot and 
when he gets through he stops. Get your Father to read you some 
of these evenings the two short poems — "The Eternal Goodness" 
and "Our Master," They will bear reading many times and I 
know you will both subscribe to every line, 

71 



I said to Teddy before light: "Whom do you think I had a 
letter from last night? Somebody we both love." "Aunt Abby?" 
I'No." "Papa?" "No." "Cora?" "No." "Uncle Abe?" "No." 
"Someone whose writings you love." "Hans Anderson?" "No, a 
Poet." Then he whispered, "J. G. Whittier?" (for he loves him 
best of the Poets because he compiled the two volumes of Child 
Life). "Yes! and perhaps he'll make us another book!" Such 
delight as he manifested I never saw, you would have thought a 
whole "school of porpoises" were leaping about the bed and he 
kept it up for about five minutes. Then raced off to Grandma's 
room to tell her and she said he supplemented the news by a good 
many most uncommon jumps. I never saw a child of his age 
that loved books so much (in the Winter, •) in the summer he is 
busy with nature and dirt. 

Tell me when you write what news you have from your dear 
ones abroad. Do you often see my good Bro. Mr. Smith and 
family? How is Art? I long to hold communion with you. 

Morpheus has deserted me the two past nights, so now I must 
take my pillow and go after him — Sleep! Sleep! "Blest be the 
man that first invented sleep," so Sancho Panza said and so say 1. 
Your sleepy-headed lover, 

Julia. 



The Old Farm, Litchfield, February 24, 1876. 
My darling: 

That implies a great deal I know — but it is always the feeling 
that lives in my thoughts, for ever since that summer-time when 
first you crept into my heart as a child — 

"I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart. 

But put you down into the dungeons 

In the round tower of my heart, 

And there I will keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 

'Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 

And moulder in dust away." 

I was more than glad to get your long letter, and you must never 
think your affairs, either de coeur or others, are not of interest 
to me. My impulse was to write you at once, but on second 
thoughts I knew it wasn't best. What you write concerning Mr. 
K. gave me great relief, for from all you have told me of him, I 
felt sure he was a selfish man, and unworthy of you. When a 
man is "in love," he naturally acts out the best there is in him 

72 



toward the object he wishes to gain. If at such a time, a man 
consults his own ease and wishes, rather than those of his love, 
let her beware how she becomes entangled. I have in mind now, 
several of the worthiest women on earth, who, years ago, sacrificed 
themselves to just such selfish men, and their life was one heavy 
burden, two of them sunk in their graves without a ray of sym- 
pathy from their most correct and exemplary husbands, glad to 
get out of the world and away from such coldness. The other 
two will soon go the same way, and glad to go. Not one of those 
men have any vices, nothing but selfishness, which I sometimes 
think is the sum of all vices. When you see a man uniformly 
kind, and considerate and willing to sacrifice his own comfort for 
his Mother or sisters, or if he has none, the same way with the 
poor and helpless, we may feel tolerably sure he will make a good 
husband (although he may not accumulate property so fast as 
some of the selfish ones). Another thing that besets a young 
woman who appears to be wealthy, is the fortune hunter. You 
may laugh, my dear, but I know of so many who thought they 
married for love, but it was partly because they hoped she would 
have a few thousands they could in some way control, and to make 
life a little easier, and when they found, as they generally do that 
their expenses were increased and not the income, what they fancied 
was love collapses and they must live on husks or perish. I had no 
thought of writing any of this when I began but like the epitaph 
Joe Gargery wrote for his Father's tombstone, "It seemed to come 
to me!" You are young yet and have plenty of time before you — 
I pray God you may not make a fatal mistake. Among all my 
near friends the marriages have been singularly happy, but not one 
among them has been married young and all were thoroughly 
acquainted during long engagements. You will think me in a 
sombre mood for all this homily, but my dear one, there is no one 
among those I dearly love for whom I have the solicitude I feel 
just now for you. For I know your loving nature, and that life 
would be bitter indeed to you if you were to settle down upon a 
lower order of love than your own. 

I have just written Fanny all about Theo's and my visit of ten 
days to Washington, the Dramatics, etc., so as you can hear it from 
her, will not repeat. We made the acquaintance of three Chinese 
girls and two young men. Theo fell in love with little Amy Laisun. 
We found all well on return except the dear old trees. They 
looked pretty sick. An ice-storm has broken some of them badly 
and their limbs strew the grounds. Dwight has drawn up several 
loads. When the kindly leaves come out it will cover the loss I 
hope. I have taken my first cold of the season and it has deprived 
me of speech for four days. At last I have succeeded in driving 

73 



the silence out of mj^ throat. If there is any silence needed any- 
where I trust it will go to the right place. 

Frank Bissell is married to Miss Macdonald ! ! ! Not, I am happy 
to say, to our dear "little Mac." 

We had great fun at a spelling match here between about 6o — 
I was spelled down once, then spelled the whole lot down twice, 
and had no preparation as I didn't know what they would spell 
from. They put such words to me as ricochet, blanc mange, Esqui- 
maux, gneiss, caoutchouc, etc., etc. 

Friday morning. Mr. P. is going so I will not finish this time. 
I am looking for birthday letters on Monday. 
Your most loving 

Julia. 



Litchfield, Conn. 
My dear Cora: 

As the enclosed letters belong to you and not to me I send them 
on, not because they have any value at this late day. Did you 
receive one from your Father which I forwarded a month ago? 
We should like to hear from you, for we have not forgotten to 
love you as of old, and do you know, dear friend, a true, disinter- 
ested love is worth having — it hardly matters from whom. Please 
remember me kindly to all the family, and believe me 

As ever yours 

Julia V. 



The Old Farm, Thursday evening. 
My darling: 

Yours is received. When I said "A letter from Cora!" the 
young folks set up a shout and gathered around to hear it. They 
all speak of missing you and I know they do, for every one in the 
house loves you — but I am selfish enough to think that none of 
them love so hard as I do, few perhaps have thought so much about 
it, especially in regard to your dear self, for they haven't known 
you so long. 

I readily found the silk waist, which I send by Ex., also the 
piano key was in your work basket, and so I send it thinking you 
may like to play some, especially if some of your dear friends should 
be in to see you. You arrived at the St. James before I reached 
home yesterday, for before the Blacksmith had served me it began to 
rain, but I came at last all right and in the p. m. the floods de- 
scended again — but we had a jolly time. You should have heard 
the shouts of laughter — perhaps you did? My Sister, Mrs. Robin- 
son and AUie came to-day. Brother Charlie was obliged to leave 

74 




Julia in her "teens" 



in another direction. He will perhaps come up next week. Sister 
Nealie and Robin vv^ere also here to-day. This eve we have been 
Charading. Fanny Smith, Robby Ormiston and AUie Rob, acted 
Plant-a-shun. I wish you had been here to see. They acted 
capitally. Fanny didn't laugh once, and Sister Clara and several 
others said, "How much she looks like her Father!" (having on a 
hat and cloak and mustache). The boys were blacked and regular 
little Sambos — standing on their heads and dancing double-shuffles 
every time their Massa's back was turned. I had Dwight exercise 
your pony to-day as I couldn't well go, but I shall hope to drive 
her to-morrow. It is raining again this eve, and I shouldn't wonder 
if the dust would get laid. * * * j j^^ve been thinking 
about those we both love — and so you know about how my thought 
runs. Ah! what a barren world this would be if we couldn't love 
each other! I'd sell out and move away to some other place — I 
ought to stop but don't want to. "Little Mac" says "put in my 
love!" I've had a good visit with her to-day and yesterday. Isn't 
she sweet ! I hope you will have the best of good times, my dearie — 
and come back feeling well. Please tell your Father I am very 
glad he didn't have to lose his bet of $500,000 that you would leave 
something, but at the same time I am sorry that you have been 
inconvenienced. Be sure to let me know when you are coming 
that I may meet you at the Station if possible — Remember me to 
your Father very kindly and believe me as ever, 

Your dearly loving 
Julia. 

Following are some extracts from letters written by 
Francis S. Smith to his daughter, much to the edifi- 
cation of herself and the friends whom she was visiting 
at Litchfield, Conn. : 

Street & Smith, Publishing House, 
No. 55 Fulton Street, 
New York. 
Francis S. Street, 
Francis S. Smith. 

Office of The New York Weekly (Circulation 230,000), 
The Illustrated Literary Album, 
The Phunny Phellow. 
My darling Cora: N. Y., June 24, 1869. 

I cannot tell you how much pleased I was to receive your letter 
and to read that you are well and enjoying yourself. * * * 

75 



So you have been fishing, have you? I suppose that because you 
have conquered Mr. Vaill at croquet, you think you can beat him 
at fishing also, but I fear that you will find the last-named task 
an up-hill business. If you learn to fish as well as you have learned 
to play croquet, I will have to set you up in business when you 
return home. I think I can buy a horse good enough for about 
fifty cents, and a wagon to match it for about the same money. 
So if you can procure a tin horn anywhere, and practice "tooting" 
on it, so you will be perfected on it when you reach home * * « 



My dear Cora: New York, August 4, 1870. 

I hope you are getting along well, and I feel quite certain that 
you are. You could not well do otherwise in such good hands. 
I have no doubt that the boys at least are getting along swimmingly 
every other day. And now, my darling, while I think of it, let 
me speak of something that is on my mind. To use the words of 
my "Uncle William" in his great play of "Hamlet," "If ever thou 
didst thy dear father love, avenge his most foul and deliberate — " 
defeat at croquet, at the hands of the fiendess, Mrs. Barton. You 
know you are champion, and I wish her to understand that although 
I cannot play much myself, I have a daughter who can. "A dwarf 
may have a giant for his friend, and so be master of a giant's 
strength." 

All of you be just as good as you can be: be gentle, kind, affec- 
tionate and forbearing one to the other, for there is nothing in 
all this world so beautiful as harmony in families. "The kingdom 
of heaven is within you," if you will cultivate it. Do it. "So 
shall your ways be ways of pleasantness and all your paths be peace," 
and you will make your old Father supremely happy. Stay as long 
as it will do you good to stay — not depriving yourself of any pleasure 
which you greatly desire. 

And now, my dear ones, I must say good-bye for the present, and 
may the protection of that dear Father, Whom I revere in my heart 
of hearts, encompass you all around, and return you to me safe, 
healthy and happy. ^our devoted father, 

Francis S. Smith. 



"I was sorry to learn you had had such bad luck at fishing, but 
don't give it up. Procure a copy of Isaac Walton on Piscatorial 
Sports, and get Mr. Vaill to give you a few lessons in luring the 
finny tribe, for I have set my heart on your becoming a first-class 
peddler. I saw a horse and wagon in front of my ofhce the other 
day, which I think would just about suit, and I wouldn't at all 

76 



regret laying out a dollar for them. You see I am not at all 
stingy! 

I don't approve of the strawberry business at all. It isn't half 
aristocratic enough. If you can't go into the fish trade, I think 
you had better procure a bag and hook, and go into the rag-picking 
profession. That is a nice, light, genteel business, besides being 
very lucrative. Why, there are at least half a dozen of our best 
families whose progenitors laid the foundations of their immense 
fortunes in that line. You are young, enterprising and ambitious, 
and would certainly succeed as a 'raggist.' Only think, after mak- 
ing a million or so, you could cut the trade and set up a splendid 
establishment. Your coat-of-arms might be a hand-cart with two 
yellow dogs harnessed and couchant thereunder, surmounted by a 
bag and hook crossed. Think of this, and don't disappoint me 

utterly. Fish or rags it must be. Nothing else will suit me 

« * *" 

"Your last letter reached me safely, and gave me much pleasure. 
You are improving wonderfully in epistolary productions, and will 
one day make a first-class letter-writer. 

I am afraid after all I shall have to come down a peg in my lofty 
views concerning your future. I don't think you have the genius 
for either a 'raggist' or a 'fishist'; and taking this view of the 
matter, the bright idea strikes me that you may become a common 
scribe ; not a writer of law documents, perhaps, but a miserable 
authoress. What a humiliating reflection! Alas, that I should have 
hoped so much from you, and come to this 'lame and impotent con- 
clusion' at last! But we may have the dollar horse-and-wagon yet; 
or if that fails, I think I shall buy you a pony to ride, and you 
must try and make that answer. 

Your Mamma is still enjoying excellent health, and so are your 
brothers, who are all with us at present. We have a beautiful home 
in Orange for the summer months, situated on the very apex of a 
ridge near Montrose Station, where the air is pure and balmy, and 
the birds make such music as to enrapture one with life. * * * 

Enclosed I send you the poem, 'How a heart was lost,' which I 
wrote when with you last. 

Pray be careful of yourself, my pet. Your Father's heart-strings 
are bound around you, and should ill befall you, they would snap. 

"I received and read your letter with very much pleasure, — all 
except that portion of it which breathed of hay fever. Confound 
that hay fever! I do think the nose should have been treated better 
than any other feature of the human face-divine, because it is the 
very centre (scenter) of our beauty, and because it is so plain on 
the face of things; but it has worse treatment than all the rest put 

77 



together. I have very little sympathy for one of those turn-up 
fellows, nor do I like one of those sharp-pointed fellows that show 
a disposition to dip into other people's affairs. In fact, I can't 
say that I am partial to a hump-backed nose. But such noses as 
3'ours and mine should be let severely alone. But the Lord knows 
this is enough about noses! 

I hope you will succeed with your theatre ; and their High Mighti- 
ness — the Baron and Baroness of Bowronsville — bespeak two re- 
served seats (orchestra stalls) in advance. Tell the famous tra- 
gedian, George C. Smith, not to put too much lead in the seat of 
his trousers when he dresses for his part. Hint to the low comedian, 
Ormond G. Smith, that dirt is not absolutely necessary in the 
make-up of a gentleman's valet; and advise the heavy man, Charles 
Vaill, to keep a bright look-out for bumble-bees: the sting of criti- 
cism does not amount to much in the long run, but the sting of a 
bumble-bee is most intolerable, and not to be endured, and Charles 
nose it. 

I think your picture is splendid, and I thank you for sending it to 
me. When I first opened your letter I did not know it was from 
you, and when the picture dropped out I was wondering which of 
our young lady contributors had been sending me her picture — for 
you know I receive such favors frequently." 



"Your mother and myself came up from Long Branch this morn- 
ing on a flying visit, and shall return again on the afternoon boat. 
I have very little to write about except the follies and frivolities of 
fashionable life, and that you know is distasteful to me. The visi- 
tors at Long Branch are made up principally of dandies with their 
hair parted in the middle, and gushing damsels with their hair done 
up in a bag at the back of their heads; and both are decidedly more 
ornamental than useful. To give you an idea of the immensity 
of brain possessed by the latter class, I will mention the fact that 
a few evenings since during a brilliant display of the 'Aurora 
Borealis,' a pudding-headed youth, whose clothes fitted him alto- 
gether too little, approached a gusher and exclaimed — 'Oh, Miss 
Florence, do come and look at the "rora." ' 'What's the "rora?" ' 
asked the damsel. 'Oh, the light in the sky,' was the rejoinder — 
'they call it a "rora," you know, but I'm sure I don't know why!' 
and away they went to look at the 'rora.' And yet these two young 
persons were dressed in the height of fashion, and belonged without 
doubt to the 'Upper Ten.' What I have witnessed while sojourn- 
ing at Long Branch has set me moralizing, and the result is the 
enclosed poem — 'A Few Thoughts' — which j'ou may have the privi- 
lege of reading before it goes out to the world: 

78 



"A FEW THOUGHTS" 

"I think a disposition that is happy and resigned 
Adds greatly to the comfort and the health of human kind. 
I think a sour temper and a bosom filled with spite 
Brings trouble, and puts every sign of happiness to flight. 
I think no individual, hovi^ever high his station. 
E'er gained the praise of worthy men by vice and dissipation. 
I think no dainty dandy, while for ladies' favors suing, 
E'er added perfume to his breath by smoking or by chewing. 
I think that wicked cunning never met with much success. 
I think if swindlers suffered more, their number would be less. 
I think if meddling gossips would cease to spy and talk, 
That lawyers would be fewer, and courts would have less work. 
I think that many doctors would better blacksmiths make. 
I think that clerks who gamble have more than gold at stake. 
I think a man who marries, if he gets a proper mate, 
Secures a fortune, though his bride may own no real estate, 
I think if certain folks would let some other folks alone. 
They'd find more leisure to attend to business of their own. 
I think when stingy rich men chance from fortune's height to 

tumble. 
And meet with little sympathy, they have no right to grumble. 
I think that many ministers, renowned for fluent speech. 
Would more consistent be, if they'd practice what they preach. 
I think that true religion, when the tempter tries his art. 
Throws a shield of triple power around the wavering heart. 
I think that every soul that sins will meet with suffering. 
Whether that soul belongs to a peasant or a king. 
I think all grades of people, from the monarch to the slave. 
Are fashioned from one common clay, and equal in the grave." 



WHAT ROBIN SAID 

Written at Litchfield 

O'erburdened with sadness, despondent and weary, 

I sought the cool shade of an old maple tree; 
And I said, as I seated myself, "Oh, how dreary. 

How vapid, how dull, is this great world to me!" 
Just then a blithe robin, with downy breast glowing. 

Broke into a song from his perch on a bough, 
And I cried, "Oh, sweet robin, with joy overflowing. 

What would I not give to be happy as thou!" 

79 



He ceased his glad warbling, and looked down upon me 

As though he were gifted with wisdom profound — 
The sly minstrel knew that his music had won me, 

And feared not to jump from his perch on the ground. 
Then he hopped to my feet, and he cunningly eyed me, 

And gave a sly wink and a twist of his head. 
As though, while he trusted me not, he defied me, 

And this, in his bird talk, is what Robin said. 

"You envy, poor grumbler, my lot and condition, 

Because you are troubled by worldly afifairs. 
How simple you are! How short-sighted your vision! 

Do you think that a bird has no sorrows or cares? 
My mate and myself only last week were sleeping 

One night, with our brood, in a snug little nest, 
When a hurricane fierce through the tree-tops came sweeping, 

And ruthlessly tore the dear ones from my breast. 

"But God sent the storm that produced this disaster, 

And although it filled me with sorrow and pain, 
I knew that it came from a merciful Master, 

And I tried to forget it and warble again. 
And even in winter, when hunger assails me, 

And frost chills my frame, I endeavor to sing; 
I am thankful for life, and the hope never fails me 

That comfort and joy will return with the spring. 

"The truth is, my friend, when you sit down and grumble. 

And take of this life such a cynical view. 
Instead of invoking a spirit that's humble. 

It is not the world that's to blame — it is you. 
All are subject alike to both blessings and crosses; 

So cease your mad race after power and pelf; 
Be thankful for gains, and resigned under losses, 

And you'll find that most troubles are made by yourself." 

Thus spoke little Robin in bird language plainly. 

And pluming his wings, he returned to the trees. 
And I know that he thought that he had not spoken vainly, 

From his satisfied air as he looked down at me. 
And, indeed, I'll confess, as I thought the thing over, 

When garrulous Robin had taken his flight, 
That I in his lesson no fault could discover. 

And that his deductions were certainly right. 

80 




The Young Poet G. C. S. 



From "The Winsted Herald," eighteen hundred and 
sixty-eight. 

"Just so long as this fierce, fiery, broiling temperature 
continues, we shall make up our newspaper the easiest 
way we can, and we don't believe there is a single 
patron of the Herald so hard-hearted as to blame us for 
it. The Herald readers are not such a mean class of 
people as all that. Here, now, are a couple of "poems," 
written by two excessively youthful Brooklyn gentle- 
men, who are summering in Litchfield. We should 
hardly think it worth while at any other season of the 
year to print them, but in view of the elevated mercury 
they must go in. They will help to fill a column as 
well as something more ponderous. They were prize 
poems, inspired by an offer of twenty-five cents for the 
worst one : 

A TRYING FAMILY 

by 
George Campbell Smith. 

Oh! I do feel so happy 

All through these summer days, 
I'll go and gather holly, 

What else I will not say. 

I know I'm very lazy, 

And father works so long 
I think I ought to help him; 

I'll do it with a song. 

Oh! it is very dreary; 

The ice is all around, 
And mother now is weeping, 

For father is in the ground. 

Mother, what shall we do? 

We have nothing now to eat. 
And you won't live, dear mother. 

For it's all sun and heat. 

8i 



Mother, I've got to go; 

I thought so yesterday, 
And you are not afraid 

That I should go away. 

He put his hand upon his breast; 

"I'm going, Ma," he said; 
She kissed him, and he said "Good-bye!" 

He died upon his bed. 

The above was published in the Winsted Herald 
about eighteen hundred and sixty-eight by Theodore F. 
Vaill, whose apologies and cynicisms, though quite jus- 
tifiable, were not fraught with prescience, for I doubt 
that any matter in that particular issue of his publi- 
cation, if it has survived oblivion, has ever been so 
treasured and enjoyed as these rare bits of poesy. On 
special occasions, such as family reunions on Christmas, 
Thanksgiving and other holidays, their proud custodian 
would bring them forth to shine in their pristine glory 
for the edification of the company. 

"A Trying Family" set the audience in shrieks of 
laughter, even when the offspring of the perpetrator 
were too young to be critics of their father's effusions, 
yet they felt the humor of the occasion and made such 
a din amidst the general jollification that the reader 
was not permitted to progress except by fits and starts, 
while the laughter drowned all pathos suggested by the 
lines. Even the untimely end of the hero as "He died 
upon his bed" failed to cast the proper gloom, in fact, 
at this climax the listeners were generally so weak from 
laughter that they could not but be thankful for the 
sudden demise; however, there must have been some 
subtleties in "A Trying Family" beyond the ken of ordi- 
nary minds, for the initiated ones who instinctively 
scent genius amidst their own preserves (I refer to 

82 



Messrs. Vaill and Smith, sr.) both concluded that way 
down deep in the brain of the young poet there must 
be a spark which set "The Trying Family" in motion, 
inconsistent and contradictory as the action of the verses 
may seem to a layman. Far be it from me to criticise 
the judgment of my elders or question the talent of the 
prize winner, who added this gem to the archives of 
Smith family lore. As a self-appointed critic I note, 
however, that in the third verse, severe cold has laid the 
father of the improvised family low, while in the 
verse following, extreme heat is about to treat the 
mother in the same manner. It looks as though the 
spirit of the elements had decided to exterminate the 
family as quickly as possible, while in the last two 
verses, the material manner in which the sun shuffles 
off his mortal coil is unique. It appears that he calmly 
decided upon his departure the day previous as to the 
actual consummation of the same, giving the impression 
that he had studied a map, purchased a ticket and de- 
cided upon his bed as a medium of rapid transit. Mr. 
Vaill's lofty reflections in his editorial on these chef 
d'oeuvres have lost their sting. It was quite "worth 
while" at any "season of the year," whether "the mer- 
cury" was up or down, as far as my present judgment 
is concerned, but for his condescension let us be duly 
thankful. Cast bread upon the waters and back it 
comes after many years. These little lines have gath- 
ered value with age until they have become precious 
heirlooms linking our present sobered lives, affluent and 
bright as they may be, with that little green spot way 
yonder where we basked in the sunshine of youth and 
fanciful dreams. 

83 



Following is the second "poem" referred to by Editor 
of Winsted Herald : 

A RIDE TO BANTAM LAKE 

by 
"Charley Vaill." 

'Tis a beautiful morn in the month of May, 
And everything shows 'tis a very fine day. 
Miss Vaill is a-hurrying to put up the cake, 
For in a few^ minutes we go to the Lake. 

"Hark, here comes the wagon, 
Kitty, open the gate. 
I knew Mr. Foster 

Wouldn't be a bit late." 

Frank and Ormy the driver on the front seat. 
"Cora, put up the umbrella to keep off the heat. 
Now driver, all ready, just see how we fly. 
Turn round to the house and call 'Mamie, good-bye.' " 

"Miss Vaill. Oh! where is Freddy? 

And what will he come on?" 
"There wasn't room for him in here ; 

He'll come along on Don." 

And now again we have reached home. 
Our pleasures have received no stain. 
We wish no more today to roam. 
Because it has begun to rain. 

"The Drunkard's Dream," by Ormond G. Smith, 
which also figured in the competition, I regret to say, 
came to an untimely end. Lost, strayed or stolen ; De- 
spite my vigilant eye! It certainly looks suspicious to 
me, especially if the judges concluded that in their 
united and unbiased opinion, it was outclassed by "A 
Trying Family." Perhaps, after all, it was asking too 
much clemency on the part of the "readers," although I 
cannot help wishing that Mr. Vaill had been less con- 

84 



siderate for them or we might now be revelling in the 
thrills that the title suggests. There is a missing note 
in the annals of the Smith family, where the prophet 
is not without honor, when a proud sister keeps the 
records. 



85 



FACTS CONCERNING "THE VAILL HOMESTEAD" 

Not colored by my imagination, but quoted from historic records. 

TIE Vaill Homestead, situated by about two miles from the 
center, is the oldest house in the township. It was built in 
1744 by Captain Joseph Vaill on land which was described 
in the deed as "Wolf-Pit Hill." This land belonged to Mr. William 
Peck, one of the original settlers of the town, was deeded as a wedding 
gift to his daughter, who married Captain Joseph Vaill. The latter 
had formerly lived at Southold, L. I. The construction of the "W^olf- 
Pit," which was in active operation prior to the building of the home 
for this intrepid young married pair, was simple but effective; an 
excavation in the ground was surmounted by heavy logs, so arranged 
that they would fall upon and crush a wolf when he tugged at the 
"bait" fastened to a figure 4 trap underneath. Bounties were paid for 
the destruction of wolves, snakes, etc. On the sixteenth of May, 1740, 
it was voted "that whosoever shall kill and destroy any rattle snakes 
within the bounds of the town anytime before the tenth day of Decem- 
ber next, bringing the tayle and som of the flesh to any of the electmen 
of the town shall have three pence for each snake." 

The original design of the Homestead was the well-known "lean- 
to" of that period. At a later date the longer roof was cut off, leav- 
ing the two roofs of equal length. The stairway in the main portion 
is about five feet in width, and rises under an arch formed by union 
of the two brick chimneys in the north and south rooms. It is prob- 
able that a large stone chimney originally occupied the space of the 
present stairway, and that the present brick chimneys and the broad 
straight stairway were subsequent improvements. In 1853 the old 
stone chimney and its-no-longer-required huge oven were removed 
and later other changes and additions were made, bringing the appear- 
ance of the house as it is today. 

The second owner of the Homestead was Benjamin Vaill, who 
lived there for eighty years, until his death in 1852. 

It was next in the possession of the Rev. Herman Landon Vaill, 
born under its roof, eldest son of Benjamin; served in the War of 
1812. Later he taught school in Goshen Academy, when John 

86 



Brown, of Harper's Ferry fame, was one of his pupils. He also 
taught in Georgia and Cornwell ; studied at Andover Theological 
Seminary and Yale Divinity School and received the honorary degree 
of Master of Arts from Yale in 1824. He was ordained as a Con- 
gregational minister and had pastorates at East Haddam, East Lynne, 
Torrington, Seneca Falls, N. Y., and Milton (1849-1857), finally 
retiring and living the last thirteen years of his life in the old Home- 
stead at Litchfield. He married Flora Gold, descendant of Nathan 
Gold, one of the nineteen petitioners named in the Charter of Con- 
necticut, dated April 12, in the fourteenth year of the reign of 
Charles the Second. In 1870 the property came into his possession 
by right of inheritance. 

Among the descendants of Capt. Joseph Vaill was Doctor Charles 
Vaill, of Rochester, N. Y., a wit whose sparkling humor is said to 
have done his patients more good than his prescriptions. In ref- 
erence to the fact that the Litchfield branch of the Vaill adheres 
to the two "I's" in the spelling of the name, he was once asked why 
he didn't drop one of the I's, he said he "didn't know which one 
to drop." 

Theodore F. Vaill, another descendant of Captain Joseph, and son 
of Herman Landon Vaill, was Adjutant and Historian of the Second 
Connecticut Volunteer Heavy Artillery in the Civil War, originally 
the Nineteenth Connecticut Volunteers. Theodore F. Vaill was 
mustered out August 18, 1865, wounded at Fort Fisher when Lieu- 
tenant, flesh wound in left hip by cast-iron ball from spherical case 
shot. He was editor of the Winsted Herald from 1863 to 1875. 
Author of the "Aeneid in Modern American," a humorous trans- 
lation of the first and fourth books of Virgil's Aeneid. 

Joseph H. Vaill, the present owner, entered the Civil War in 
September 27, 1861; transferred to invalid corps on May 18, 1864. 
Editor of The Winsted Herald, and Connecticut Representative as 
Executive Officer of the Columbian Exposition in 1893. The Atlanta 
Exposition of 1895 and the Louisiana Purchase Exposition of 1904. 

Joseph H. Vaill, brother of Theodore, was the last direct descend- 
ant of the Homestead. In reference to this gentleman, who passed 
away a few months prior to my visit, I take the liberty of quoting 
the following from the Litchfield Inquirer of April I, 1915: 

"Litchfield Inquirer, April i, 19 15. On Saturday afternoon 
of last week, in Litchfield's old cemetery, near the boyhood 
scenes he knew and loved so well, and next to many of his 
comrades of the days gone by, relatives and friends from far 
and near gathered to pay the last tribute of affectionate regard 
for Joseph Herman Vaill, 'Our Joe,' as Litchfield alwa)'s has 
and always will be proud to call him. Mr. Vaill's earlier life 

87 



was passed at Litchfield and he was almost the only one left 
of those who studied at the little red school house on Harris 
Plains; afterwards he studied at the Gunnery School at Wash- 
ington, Conn., and enlisted for the war, September 17, 1861. 
He was in Company E, Eighth Regiment, C. V. I., and was 
promoted May 18, 1862, as quartermaster Sergeant of the regi- 
ment. In February, 1864, he was transferred to the 159th 
Company, Second Battalion, V. R. C, as first sergeant. 

He took the management of the Winsted Herald when his 
brother Theodore died in 1875, and edited the paper for sixteen 
years. As a newspaper man 'Joe' Vaill was beloved and re- 
spected by the fraternity of the State; was one of the most 
popular men in Connecticut, genial, kind-hearted and witty. 
He was one of the Charter members of the Connecticut Editorial 
Association, was chosen by the Connecticut Board of Manage- 
ment as Executive Secretary of the Chicago Exposition in 1893. 
Also served in that capacity at the St. Louis Exposition. His 
wonderful tact and gift of adaptability, as well as his executive 
force soon made him the Dean among the State Secretaries. 
Aside from his newspaper work Mr. Vaill wrote Connecticut 
at the Columbian Exposition, 1893, and Connecticut at St. Louis, 
1904. He also compiled a history of the Litchfield County 
Choral Union. 

He was one of the sweetest and most lovable of men, yet his 
principles were as firm and solid as the granite cliffs of his 
native hills. He was a New Englander of the best and highest 
type, with all the wit as well as the wisdom that have made 
the men from this section world builders. He was ever doing 
for others, with never a thought for himself (like Julia)." 

A tribute from his friend, R. S. Hulbert, printed in the Winsted 
Citizen : 

"I have known Joseph H. Vaill from the long years since the 
early 8o's; far-seeing, versatile, of literary ability, adept, able, 
but above all a true friend. I will add but one more tribute — 
Brave men face death, unafraid in the tumult of battle and 
crouching beside each other in trenches, but many of them 
would fail where Mr. Vaill endured cheerfully, even with a 
pathetic humor, after he was stricken to the end. Mr. Vaill 
left a wife, who was Cornelia Smith, of Litchfield ; two sons, 
Robinson and Theodore, and one sister, Mrs. Charles Robinson, 
of Pelham Manor." 

In conclusion, relative to the above taken from the Litchfield 
Inquirer, may I add a few lines that were sent to me and my brothers 

88 




Old Congregational Church 



'V* 



when we lost our Comrade and Father: "He has left a record 
behind him worth more to his children than the greatest wealth." 



A SIMPLE TRIBUTE 

to 

JULIA M. VAILL. 

From the Litchfield Inquirer, September 12, 1912: 

"Miss Julia M. Vaill, daughter of the late Herman Landon 
Vaill and Flora Gold Vaill, died at Stamford, August 27, 1912. 
Miss Vaill was a woman of rare charm. Both in conversation 
and in her writings she invariably showed the keenest wit, and, 
furthermore, endeared herself to her many friends by her genuine 
interest in people of all classes." May I add, the most unselfish 
character I have ever met and the embodiment of all Christian 
graces. 



THE EVOLUTION OF THE CONGREGATIONAL 
CHURCH IN LITCHFIELD 

(A little data now and then is relished by the "Dinna Ken") 

There have been to date four Congregational 
Churches built in Litchfield. The Pioneers of the town 
brought with them from Lebanon the Rev. Timothy 
Collins and at the first town meet of which there is any 
record, November 16, 1721, he was called to a settle- 
ment in the place in the work of ministry. He was 
ordained as pastor July 19, 1723, and occupied the same 
pulpit for twenty-nine years. Next followed Rev. 
Judah Champion, graduate of Yale, ordained July 4, 
1753. The town then voted to build a new meeting 
house, which was completed in 1762. Captain Joseph 
Vaill was one of the committee to sign for this new edi- 
fice. It was erected on the Green near the site of the 
first one, 63 feet long, 42 feet wide, with a steeple and 

89 



bell. Mr. Champion's successor was the Rev. Daniel 
Huntington, ordained in 1798. Rev. Lyman Beecher 
was installed in this second church in 18 10, where he 
preached for seventeen years and was succeeded by Rev. 
Daniel L. Carroll in 1827. Then once again the church 
society voted to erect a new church edifice, marking the 
third house of worship on the same site on the Green 
and completed 1829 (the one I attended). The Rev. 
Laurens P. Hickok was installed as pastor July 5, 1829. 
Then came a change of location and the fourth struc- 
ture was completed and occupied in 1873. 



TO A FRINGED GENTIAN 

by 
*Theodore Bissell Vaill. 

Little Gentian, you are fair, 

With your wondrous hood of blue, 
Exquisite your dainty fringe. 

Surely God has favored you! 
When my Lady strolls with me 

Through country lanes so fair, 
Now and then we spy your head. 

And we cry out "Oh, how rare!" 
Little Gentian, do you know, 

Just how rare you really seem, 
How you hold us by your charm. 

Held — enthralled — as in a dream. 
None can find you in the Spring, 

In the Summer, too, you hide; 
But when Autumn comes along 

Oft time by some charmed road-side, 
Sly, your head peeps through the grass, 

From your little wayside bower, 
While we passers-by exclaim 

"Little Gentian, rarest Flower!" 

•Who explained to me that "Aunt Julia's" love of this flower inspired him to 
write these lines, which I think beautiful. 

90 



SWEET MEMORIES 

by 
Francis S. Smith 

A poetical version of a prose review of Litchfield by his daughter. 

When winter hurls her bitter sleet 

Across the unprotected moor, 
The traveller with hasty feet 

Speeds on toward his cabin door; 
But though the sharp-fanged nipping air 

May crust his beard with icy rime, 
It cannot from his memory tear 

The sweet delights of summer-time. 

So every memory born of joy 

Will live as long as life shall last; 
No changes can the charm destroy — 

'Tis proof 'gainst every arrow cast, 
A backward view recalls the hours 

That once our youthful pulses thrili'd, 
As aromatic summer flowers 

Live in the scents from them distili'd. 

The memory of a childhood pass'd 

Beneath a gentle mother's sway, 
With love's sweet mantle o'er it cast, 

Can never wholly pass away. 
Whatever adult fate we earn, 

Whate'er the censure or the praise — 
Still will the fond heart sometimes turn 

Back to those careless, happy days. 

Then let us, as we journey on. 

Endeavor some sad heart to cheer — 
'Twill be an act to think upon 

When ending our probation here — 
A joy to know that after death 

Has set the restless spirit free. 
There still lives in our mortal breath 

Some fondly cherish'd memory. 



91 



IF a house could talk gold mines would suffer in in- 
terest by comparison. The Litterateur would be en- 
riched in such outpouring of comedies and tragedies 
that even Shakespeare might be outrivalled and this bit 
of narrative be quite extinguished by a very antiquated, 
a very historical, a very well-bred old house, whose 
voice, mellowed by age and softened by contact with 
the wisdom and purity of the dwellers therein, I can 
easily imagine at this finis, offering a benediction on the 
head of one of the least of its devotees, who still lives 
to remember and for the dearly beloved that have been 
called to another Home, I hear it chant. 

"Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine" 
Give them eternal rest, O Lord ! 



Finis 



92 



List of Illustrations 

to face page 
The Vaill Homestead Which Belongs to My Memory, title "'^ 

Many Years Ago 5 <^-^ 

The Old Litchfield Village as I Remembered It . . 9 ''-^ 

The Beecher Memorial 13 ^ 

Four of the Vaill Family 16 ^"^ 

The Perch That Was Not Born To Blush Unseen . . 26 '^ 

War Rock 31 

Bantam Lake 51 

The Gould Family 52"' 

Theodore F. Vaill 64 *^ 

Julia Vaill and Three Maids She Loved 70 '^ 

Julia in Her Teens 74 -^ 

My Father . . . ^ 78 '^ 

The Young Poet 81 

Old Congregational Church 89 1/ 



93 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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